The Haunting on X Avenue

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Back inside the house, Randal tried the upstairs door. The handle moved, but the door was jammed from the force that it hit. Randal put his shoulder into it, but it wouldn’t budge. He had to hit it three more times. On the third hit, the door gave way and he boldly went in. I admit that I had my hands out in a cheesy karate chop defense as if something that can pass through walls could be blocked by my moves. It made me feel a little better. I shook off my subconscious efforts. I was kind of disappointed. I expected more drama, more things flying around the house as I looked through the window.

Pastor Randal spoke up. “Demon, you are not welcome in this house! Begone, in the name of Jesus!” He repeated himself a few more times, louder and thrusting his fist into the open air. He recited the Lord’s Prayer from the King James Bibles. After a long moment of silence, we heard Bob scream from outside.

“Help! Help me! It’s got me!” Randal rushed down the stairs to the front door, but he couldn’t get out because it was jammed. So he ran to the back door, spurred on by Bob’s continued screams for help. It sounded like he was moving. As Randal ran out of the back door, and I ran around the side yard, we saw that Bob was on his belly, desperately clawing at the ground as he was being dragged by an unseen force. He was already in the backyard being pulled to the back of the house for some odd reason.

We dog-piled him and kicked out at where his attacker should be, but we connected with nothing. We were able to see Bob’s feet dropped to the ground. We rolled off of him and helped him up. Then we threw his arms over each of our shoulders and started walking and dragging Bob back to the cars, with him spluttering about how something grabbed is ankles and started dragging him silently to the backyard.

As we were checking him for injuries, Bob indignantly dusted himself off and said, “I’m alright guys. Just a little scraped and some hurt pride. I vote that we regroup at Denny’s and talk this out.” Pastor Randal agreed.

“I’ll join you guys in a little bit. I just want to get a number first,” I responded.
As Bob took off in his old F150 pickup and Pastor Randal left in his Saturn, I walked a few doors down to Esther’s house and knocked. She opened the door before my knuckle could hit the second time. She had been waiting, watching.

“Hello Esther, could I trouble you for that psychic’s number?” She just smiled and handed me a piece of scrap paper with a name and a number already written on it.
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