The Last One - Fiction


 

He sat next to the old woman and held her hand. Her eyes stared off into the distance as she slowly rocked in her chair. Can I get you something to drink, he asked. Do you remember when we first saw that spirit in the house, she replied. He shook his head no. Out of all of the stories she told him, this was one was new. He sat up straighter in his chair. That spirit, the old woman sighed, was a force to be reckoned with. Always knocking over chairs and screaming like a child. At first, we couldn't get any sleep, she said. Morning or night. Always screaming. We tried to leave the house, but the spirit locked the doors on us. What did it want, he asked. The old woman turned her head toward him and fixed a steely stare upon him. It wanted to be loved, she whispered just as the curtains behind them moved with no wind. And, have you given it love, he whispered in fear as he looked around. I'm the last one here, she replied. I have no other choice. The others joined it. Just then, he heard someone laughing. 

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