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Being Followed
Creative
 Created on 4-4-07
 Views(27)
 Story Rating G
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I spat on the pavement. The smoke from my cigarette circled the grey wrinkles on my face. I checked the address on the package once more.
Lakeview House.
I glanced up at the towering iron gates that stood before me, challenging me to come nearer, taking me on. The brass plaque next to the gates glinted in the moonlight. It’s name checked to the one I had on my package. Damn, I thought. I had hoped I’d be able to forget the whole thing, call it off. It wasn’t often I got asked to deliver a package during the night, yet I still resented being hauled out of bed for this.
As I lent against my delivery van, I casually tried to judge the distance between the gates and the house. It wasn’t far, and I guessed that I could walk up to the house, instead of taking the van. The van would be too much hassle to turn around again at the other end, I couldn’t make out a parking space either, and so I decided to walk.
I finished off my cigarette, throwing the smouldering butt into the gutter. I walked up to the intercom, and pushed the little green “talk” button. A voice answered, the electrical interference so bad that I really had to strain to hear it.
“I’m from ParcelForce. I’m here to deliver to a Mr. Coxworth.”
“Ah, yes. We hoped you wouldn’t be long. Bring it straight to the house will you? I can’t afford to waste much time.” The voice sounded high and female, and awfully dry. It sounded manic, and I could picture the old hag’s face.
The gates creaked open just enough to let me through. I turned my iPod to loud, and it changed to play “Run” by Snow Patrol, my faveourite band. A coincidence, in a way. The old mansion loomed up before me, ghostly pale in the shimmering moonlight.
I started out along the tarmac drive leading up to the gleaming oak double doors at the front of the sandstone-bricked house. I kept to the shadows, fearing the stretch of open road. I had only gone a few metres, when I heard the distinct crack of a twig behind me, cold and clear in the still night. I turned round sharply, on my toes, ready to run.
Nothing.
Not a soul.
I glanced around quickly, the package weighing tons in my sweaty hands. A chilling breeze swept over the treetops, making the leaves rustle. They seemed to be whispering to one another. They knew. They knew I shouldn’t be here, that I didn’t belong here.
I gave myself a little shake, and told myself to stop imagining things. My drama teacher had always said that I had an over-excited imagination. I carried on, trying to shake off the constant feeling of fear. I could taste it in my mouth. The roof of my mouth and my tongue had gone dry with fear. I tried to moisten it, but no spittle came.
I walked on, quickening my pace. I ran over the words that I had told myself last year, when I had run the London Marathon. Keep going, don’t stop. It will be worse if you do. Keep going, you can do it! My legs were switched to automatic, as I tried to keep myself from going completely insane.
“Aaarggghhh!”
I screamed out. Something, someone, had touched the back of me. I turned again, a cold sweat breaking out down my spine, dreading the worst.
Nothing.
Not a soul.
I fell to my knees, too weak to go on. Sweat poured down my face, mingling with the blood from tree branches, where they had scratched me in my terror to get away. Something told me that I was being followed for a reason. I tried to force the thoughts from my mind, though they were racing at a pace that I was struggling to keep up with.
I got up, knees swaying, and turned to the house. It was much larger now; I felt that I could touch it. A high-pitched shriek sounded from behind me, and I could hear the sound of shallow breathing.
Fear took over once more, and I ran for it, “Run” still playing, drilling into my mind. My eyes started to roll about in all directions. Foam tricked out of my mouth, a mad man once more. I struggled to keep myself upright, and bent over a bush, where I retched, once, twice, and then cold, slimy vomit issued from my mouth. It dribbled down my top, little frothy bits amongst it, reminding me, telling me. The taste was shocking, and it made me want to vomit again.
I heard the sound once more, and ran to the polished front doors. I rang the bell in desperation, and waited tensely for it to open. A butler in a smart suit opened the doors. Behind him I could see an old man, a warped smile playing on his face.
“I’ll take this, Theodore.” He said.
“Your… your package sir,” I gasped and spluttered. “I, you asked me, I…”
My voice trailed away under his twisted smile, and cold, narrow eyes. He hissed at me.
“You’re cold, aren’t you? Come in, and we’ll get you nice and warm!” his eyes lit up, and before I could protest, I was dragged inside.
It wasn’t the package they wanted, it was me.
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