Earlier this month, Vantage Co-Editor-In-Chief Anna Corbett-Neal wrote the beginning of a spooky story and asked the Newman community to finish it as part of a contest. Only faculty and staff members entered the contest, which is too bad for students because the prize is two tickets to Field of Screams and a big bag of candy.
The winner of the contest was Michael Neises, an assistant professor of mathematics at Newman who said he enjoys reading The Vantage each week and said the hardest part of putting together his entry was staying under 300 words.
The runner-up was Austin Schwarz, a 2023 Newman graduate and former writer for The Vantage who now works as technical director for Newman’s Theatre department. His story, which was also great but longer than the rules allowed, can be found at newmanvantage.com
“The House on Maple Street” beginning by Anna Corbett-Neal
It was the perfect lift-off. As I squeezed the handlebars of my bike, I jumped the makeshift dirt ramp for the hundredth time that evening. As I floated off, I squeezed the hand grips so tight, the color was draining from my fists. Landing the bike with a satisfying thud, I looked around for cheers and was met with silence, realizing my friends had left just after the sun started to set. That's when I realized that the streetlights had been turned on.
How long had they been on? What time was it? I knew the moment I got home, I was in for a world of hurt.
I set off in such a frenzy that I almost didn't notice the strange light illuminating from the end of the street. This light wouldn't seem out of the ordinary to outsiders, but I knew better. Maple Street had always been known for the supposedly abandoned house at the end of the street. I say supposedly because now, there was a light shining through the top window. Could it just be a candle that a meddling kid lit as a prank? Or was it something more sinister?
I knew I had to be home soon, but I couldn't shake the feeling that was pulling me toward the light. It was as though its glowing radiance was calling to me, like a moth to a flame. Before I knew it, I was at the doorstep of the house. It looked much more run down up close than it had from the street. Some of the windows had been boarded up, and the dark blue paint was chipped and peeling. Even the porch had holes in the wood. One step forward would send me falling through the boards.
As I approached, I noticed the wooden front door was cracked open. Without a second thought, I pushed the door open and stepped in.
“The House on Maple Street” ending by Michael Neises
The inside was unremarkable. The air was thick and stale. I reached for the nearest light switch. Of course, it didn't work.
Driven by curiosity, I ascended two flights of stairs. A ladder reached down through the attic hatch. Its dusty rungs were undisturbed except by a drop of wax. I instinctively touched it and was comforted by its familiar greasiness. I poked my head into the attic.
A lone candle lit the room dimly. It sat on a little table next to a box of matches. There was no one and nothing else. The floorboards creaked as I crept toward the light.
Fire makes a peculiar tearing sound when the wind whips through it, and I was shocked by how loud it was when I blew out the candle. My forearms erupted in goosebumps. The breath that had extinguished the candle became visible like smoke. I glanced through the window, and it was pure black; the street and its lights had disappeared utterly.
I held myself and rubbed my arms. I was overcome with a feeling of guilt, but my self-care was interrupted by the sound of creaking boards. My eyes began to water as I heard someone much larger than myself begin to climb the ladder. I scrambled for the box of matches, but my unsure fingers knocked them to the floor.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I whispered while I retrieved the matches on my knees. With single-minded focus, I struck a match and held it to the wick. The footsteps were behind me, and my gut was a fist. The match fluttered and died, and I had to try again. As I lit the candle, a hand grasped my shoulder. A yelp escaped my mouth as I reflexively turned around to see an empty room.
Runner-up Austin Schwartz’s ending
The house was dark and had a musty smell. The only light in the room was that of the moon shining behind me. It revealed a disheveled living space; the wallpaper was peeling, and the wood floor was bleeding through torn-up carpet.
Thump!
The door closed behind me. My heart began to race as I turned to see who, or what, had closed the door. But there was nothing there. “It’s just the wind,” I thought. Silly to spook myself over such a simple matter. As I began to catch my breath, I could tell a faint light was shining from down the hall. I trepidatiously made my way deeper into the home to find it wasn’t a hall but a stair that led up to the second story.
Creeeek, squeaked the step as I placed my foot upon it. I darted my eyes toward the top of the stair, but no one was there. I knew if anyone was upstairs they would have heard me, but… what if they did hear me and they just didn’t care.. or? – No. I should just go home; I’ll be in enough trouble as it is.
Temptation always wins over reason. I’m a curious gal by nature. My mother had told me they had to be extra careful when I was little. I’d always try to crawl into sewage drains, run down back alleys. Dad calls me “the girl who can touch fire.” I was never afraid of anything. What happened?
That settled it. I made my way up the stairs and saw there were three rooms at the top of the landing. Two doors were shut, but the third one, whose window glanced onto the street, was wide open. I couldn’t see what the source of the light was, so I began to walk closer. Is it just my eyes or is the light getting fainter with each step I take?
Upon entering the room, I found a few toys scattered across a floor mat and in the corner, a twin-size bed. Next to it is a bedside table holding a lamp: the source of that light. As I reach to turn it off, there is a whisper. “I can’t sleep without my night light.”
I pull my hand back immediately and peer around the room to look for the speaker. The room begins to spin as I am twirling, searching for that voice. I can hardly breathe. It feels like there is a pressure building as I’m compressed – or is that just my anxiety? This room is swallowing me.
“I guess you can sleep without it.”
PHOTO: Vantage Staff
