Free Ready for a Scare? by P.J. Night

there?”
    â€œWe have a bad connection,” she said. “I’ll call back later. Everything’s okay. Love you.” She clicked the phone off, even though she suspected the call was dropped before she’d said good-bye.
    With a backward glance at her brother—still sitting, still staring—she tucked her phone back into her pocket and headed across the room to the archway thatconnected the family room with the kitchen. Even from here, she could see the kitchen was dark. Was Chrissie even in there?
    The babysitter’s name formed on her lips, but she didn’t call it out. She suddenly had the strangest sensation that she shouldn’t scream. Slowly she treaded silently toward the entrance.
    A breeze wafted across her body. She shivered. Where was the cold air coming from? What was in the kitchen?
    She tiptoed into the darkened room. A biting coldness descended on her. Goose bumps tingled her skin. All the lights were off. But even in the dimness, she sensed that something wasn’t right. The wind that had been beating against her bedroom window reached out its powerful arms and grabbed at her. The force of an unexplained squall pulled her farther into the kitchen.
    She reached instinctively for the switch on the wall. Instantly the kitchen was bathed in the artificial overhead light.
    Kelly clapped her hand over her mouth in complete amazement.
    Her eyes followed the paper tornado churning aboutthe room, as if guided by a supernatural hand. White napkins rose to the ceiling, then circled back around, dipping down before another gust lifted them again. Sheets of paper—lined notebook paper, colorful school flyers, old receipts—twirled across the floor and the table. The lighter pieces joined the napkins in a crazy Tilt-A-Whirl of motion.
    Kelly’s gaze darted to her mother’s desk. The surface was wiped clear by the windstorm vacuum. The piles of paper were now airborne.
    The back door banged savagely against the wall. The door itself lay wide open to the approaching storm and the night. The wind rushed into the house as if shooting through a tunnel.
    After a few seconds of shock, Kelly jumped into action. Racing across the kitchen, brushing the paper out of her path, she pushed at the door. The wind created a force she had to blindly throw her full weight against. As the door latch finally clicked into place, the paper storm died. Napkins fluttered lazily to the floor.
    Kelly lay, panting, with her back against the door and surveyed the mess before her. Paper littered the kitchen. A cold wetness seeped through her fuzzy socks, chillingher toes. She gazed down. Small puddles of water dotted the floor near the door. Why had the door been wide open?
    â€œChrissie?” The urge to scream that she had suppressed only a few minutes ago let loose. “Chrissie! Chrissie!”
    Her cries echoed through the empty house.
    â€œChrissie! Where are you?”
    Only the faint undertones of Madonna’s singing and the women counting off lunges on the TV could be heard.
    The cool glass of the door’s small window sent a shock through her body. Every nerve was alert.
    What now? she wondered. What do I do now?
    Her frantic gaze circled back to her mother’s desk. With a jolt, she realized that the desk wasn’t completely cleared of all its papers. She blinked in disbelief as she noticed one piece of paper sitting directly in the center, as if carefully placed or somehow attached.
    She made her way through the carpet of trash and stood before the desk. Its distressed painted wood gleamed in the light. She rested both palms on the surface. Bending down, she stared at the lone paper.
    The chills ricocheted throughout her body in an electric current much like the one she’d felt earlier in the night.
    She carefully placed one finger on the paper. It yielded to her slight push. It wasn’t taped into place. It stood squarely on the desk as if held there by unseen