The Horror Megapack_ 25 Classic and Modern Horror Stories ( PDFDrive )

SOMETIMES YOU HAVE TO SHOUT ABOUT IT,
by Darrell Schweitzer
When Caroline was born (so she was told later), she came out of the womb
screaming, and the doctor allegedly remarked, “Good strong lungs. Maybe she’ll
be an opera singer when she grows up.” But by the time she was old enough to
run around the neighborhood and blast people’s eardrums to near deafness (or at
least to the point of angrily slammed windows and doors) it was clear that she
might have the volume, but there was no particular beauty in her voice.
“Christ, that kid is loud,” people said, and what very few friends she had in the
early grades asked her, “Why do you make so much noise?”
That wasn’t to be the last time anyone asked her that, though her mother, by
and large, gave up on the point, and when her father took her to the zoo or to the
park or celebrated her birthday or otherwise paid attention to her (however
infrequently) and managed to keep her quiet, he never ruined the affair by asking
such questions.
But most of the time her father was “away” and her mother was preoccupied
with something she said Caroline was too young to understand.
Father went away for good when Caroline was nine. One night she got up late
because she had a sore throat, or a had had a bad dream, or both (details became
confused as she was later forced to tell this story over and over) and for all she
knew that it was really unlikely that she would get much comfort from either
parent, she came downstairs, and knocked gently on the door to her father’s
study (which was always locked, even when he was in it).
But she paused when she heard Father and Mother arguing in there, in tones
that sounded as much fearful as angry.
Certainly no one heard her, and she stood alone in the darkened hall as the
noise got worse and things crashed and there were awful, burning smells, then
the impossible sound of a roaring wind, as loud as an express train. The whole
house shook with it and something thumped hard, once, twice, three times
against the door until it seemed about to burst off its hinges.
Then there was silence, and blood flowed like a wave under the door, eclipsing
the light from within, splashing over Caroline’s slippers until her feet were
soaked and the cuffs of her pajamas were glued to her ankles.
That was when Caroline started screaming. She ran out into the chilly
November night, screaming, until windows came up and people shouted, “Shut
up you crazy brat!”