Young Writers Society

You trip on a large pile of shoes on your way in. The house is large, with beamed ceilings and a stairwell which reveals the upstairs hallway. The whole place smells of acohol. You are looking for your friend Leo, who invited you to this place to begin with. Going through the familyroom, you notice several bodies strung over the couch and on the floor. The music is loud, too loud. You hope that the drink you have just been offered will cool things off.

You hope that the guy who gave it to you will quit giving you that goofy grin. You start wandering around. The kitchen has dirty dishes stacked along the counters and the air smells slightly like mildew and barf. A couple girls are strung across the table while a group of guys snap their pictures. You wonder how you're friend can stand these people. You wonder why you're even there at all.

Then you shake yourself. Negative thinking! That was what got you into this mess in the first place. Thats the last time you complain to Leo about having no social life. You make a mental note to slap him when you find him, then tell yourself to think positive. Maybe he's in the next room - hopefully not too drunk, although for him to be completely sober would be too much to ask. You pick your way around several moaning bodies passed out on the floor and push the door open. It creaks eerily. Jeez, you think, as you step through into the dim room beyond. Who owns this dump, anyway?

The sound perturbs you greatly. It's like the screech of a banshee to you, and you take your hand off of the door. It stands ajar, just wide enough for you to squeeze through without making anymore noise. A sudden rush of stale, warm air blows right in your face, sending a wave of nausea through through stomach to your throat. Uhhh... I think I'll st--
A soft voice resonates off the open doorway and calls to you. Further inspection of the opening reveals a basement. "... Help... me..." It's dim, and someone could be down there. They're probably drunk and need some help. That's right, you reassure yourself, it's just some drunk kid. Maybe I should go down to help.

Promptly forgetting every horror movie you've ever seen, you slide through the open door, trying not to let the dirty wood mess up your cool new clothes. Well, you couldnt exactly come to one of Leo's flings in your usual scruffy jeans and tee, now could you? It's not your fault that Leo never told you the house was a complete junk-heap. The voice from the basement calls again, and a gust of unexpected wind makes the door hinges shiver behind you. Help me...
"Keep your hair on, I'm coming!" You shout down the stairs. You feel irritated by this whole thing. Where the *blip* is Leo? Hell, where is anybody? Why does this sort of thing always happen to you?
The bannister of the staircase is old and dusty. It seems like no-one's been down here for years, and you try to breathe shallowly so as not to clog your nostrils with the gunk that stirs beneath your tentative grasp. Your footsteps echo hollowly, and for a second, you remember that scene in the latest film you saw, the one where the teenager goes down into the basement and...
"Hey." You call. "Is this some kind of joke? 'Cause its not funny!"
Whoops. Classic horror movie stuff. You roll your eyes at your own stupidity, but you cant help but feel a tiny shiver between your shoulder blades when the voice doesnt answer.
"Hello?"

Suddenly you feel a hand clasp over your mouth, another one snatches your arm from the railing, a leg trips your foot and the arms let go of you. They push you down the remainder of the steps, a good 6 feet down you'd think, if you could see them. The dim streak of light from upstairs fades, along with the too loud music and your consciousness.

You wake up later, how much later? Someone, or something, if hovering, breathing over you and you are lying on the cold cement floor. A lightbulb dangles on the ceiling, shedding barely enough light for you to see the two silouettes; one over you, another across the room when you turn your head. Everything is blurred. You blink, and your vision is focused. The silouette across the room is smoking a cigar and leaning on a low counter by the lightbulb. The light does not reach far enough for you to see who is bent over you...