A Scary Story that's Not so Scary

July 15, 2011
By Melliana SILVER, Ware Shoals, South Carolina
Melliana SILVER, Ware Shoals, South Carolina
7 articles 0 photos 11 comments

Favorite Quote:
"And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt." - Sylvia Plath

Margaritas, salty water, and warm weather, the pretty blonde thought. She fidgeted impatiently in the hard plastic chair that was like so many others in the spacious room. Sighing heavily, she checked her watch, which read 4:31 PM. Her flight was scheduled to leave in a little less than forty-five minutes.

Clad in a comfy-looking navy blue sweatpant and jacket combo and white and silver Nikes, she was ready to brave the snow harassing the dead grass outside. The contents of her suitcase contradicted her current attire, packed to the brim with bikinis, flip flops, and cut-off shorts.

A light tap on the shoulder startled her, pulling her back to the present from daydreams about good-looking men and long nights on the beach. She turned, coming face-to-face with a handsome brunette man donning black dress pants with a matching tie and a deep blue button-up long-sleeved shirt. The badge on the shirt told her that he was airport security. She cocked an eyebrow at him, wondering what he wanted. She had done nothing wrong. She considered asking, “Is there a problem, officer?” but decided against it; it might offend him.

My, she's a beaut, the guard thought. Her long straight hair was pulled back with an elastic band at the nape of her neck. Her smooth, tan complexion was void of makeup, which led him to wonder if she was the tomboy type. That is, until he spotted her fuchsia nails and silver star dangling from her neck.

He offered her a sheepish smile. She returned the smile and quickly replaced it with tightly pressed lips. Her eyebrows bunched up in a bewildered sort of way. “Good afternoon. Ma'am, I understand you are on the 5:15 flight to Nassau?” he asked in a slightly intimidating but authoritative tone of voice.

“Yes sir,” she replied, tapping her foot out of nervous habit.

He looked down at her. “A piece of luggage was placed on the wrong flight. We have reason to believe it was yours. Will you come with me in order to identify it?”

Her stomach jumped into her throat and decided to spend a few minutes there. She choked a little, but managed a feeble, “Yes sir.”

He led her through a maze of hallways with floors so polished she could see her own reflection. They took a sharp left into another hallway and entered the first room on the right. She expected him to fidget with a set of keys for a few moments, but he simply turned the knob and the door swung open invitingly.

The room was pitch-black. It struck her as odd, but he was an airport security officer. She trusted him.

After she had entered, he shut the door gingerly. Then he pounced, heaving her against the wall and pinning her there with his weight. She struggled hard, but her petite build was no match for his hardened, heavy frame. He reached into his pocket and extracted a piece of stained cloth, which he balled up and shoved into her mouth until it reached the back of her throat. It tasted of fabric softener and hopelessness. She attempted to bite his hand during the process, but he was much too nimble for her. He worked fast, painfully binding her hands behind her back with a piece of tattered rope. He unzipped her hoodie and reached for her shirt; she kicked at him. “Chill out,” he said in a completely level voice. “I'm going to rip a piece of your shirt to use as a blindfold. Blondes,” he muttered as an afterthought. Before he finished the sentence, her sense of sight had been stolen from her.

He admired his handiwork and swept her into his arms while she fought to escape. “How romantic,” he mused. “I bet you've always wanted a prince charming to carry you over the threshold, haven't you?” He chuckled sickeningly.

She heard the whoosh of a door being opened and felt cold air tickle her skin. One more whoosh later, she was lying on her side on what felt like the backseat of a car.

She heard another door open and the squeak of leather as the man climbed into the passenger seat. He shut the door and said not a word more until they arrived at their destination.

They drove for what seemed like hours. She eventually drifted to sleep, albeit a painful one. Once or twice tears fought their way past her tightly shut eyelids and down her cheeks.

Finally the car halted. The door opened and she was lifted into the cold air once more. The guard was silent as he opened the heavy door to the filthy hotel room. He entered and discarded her onto the stiff bed. He made quick work of untying her hands, removing the blindfold. He did so gently; she was puzzled by this, although not puzzled enough to ask. She was silent as he did these things. She didn't fight until she heard the bed creak with the addition of his weight, sensed his figure hovering over her. She remained dormant until the scent of his overwhelming cologne stole her breath, until his breath forced the fine hairs on her neck to stand erect.

Her leg struck him hard in between his. He groaned painfully and rolled off her. In a split second, she was up. She headed for the holster, which he had removed and placed on the table shortly after their entrance. He was still doubled-over on the bed when she had taken steady hold of the sleek soon-to-be murder weapon. She aimed and pulled the trigger; a popping sound was her result. No bullets.

He arose and charged at her, his face blood-red with anger. As a last resort she struck him across the face with the gun. He thudded against the floor with a deafening boom.

She stood confidently over him and hit him with the gun a few more times to secure his state of unconsciousness. She checked the time: 5:18 PM. She picked up the keys and strutted out of the room like nothing had happened. She, after all, had a flight to reschedule.

“...wanted in three states for sexual assault and grand larceny. He may be posing as an airport security guard. If you have any information about Fuller's whereabouts, please call 555-8168.”

The man, who had just awoken from his stupor, heard his name on the news report and began howling with laughter.

“This hotel needs better channels.”

The author's comments:
This is the essay that I originally wrote about a girl in my class named Leah McCurry. This was the essay I posted on Facebook that "impressed" everyone and made them want stories like this.

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