The Little Girl

“The little girl is watching me!  The little girl is watching me!”
The old man paced around his living room; twenty copies of the day’s news, with the headline printed in monstrous bold letters: MISSING at the top, were scattered in shreds across the carpeted floor.  He already knew what it said, and what it was about, but he didn’t care about that.  He knew something far worse.  And it was in his house, watching him.  He could hear the paper crunch under his feet as he walked from one side of the room to the next.  His grim fingers traced the corners of his dry lips as he mumbled: “The little girl is watching me!  The little girl is watching me!” 
He gripped the arm of the couch and hunched over in pain.  His legs started to buckle, so he kneeled on his good knee—there was a fresh bruise there—and started breathing hard.  He could hear his raspy voice from the pit of his lungs just above his tongue.
Something giggled upstairs.  The old man gripped his heart and looked up at the dusty gray staircase.  It’s up there, he thought, nearly screaming it out.  She’s up there.  Next came the hysterical laughter of a child as if being swung around on a swing set.
“Oh, please go away,” the old man said in a weak voice. 
Another chuckle came echoing down the stairs and into the living room.  “Come and play, come and play.  With me! Play, play, play!  Hahahaha!”
“No!” the old man screamed while scrambling to his feet.  “Get out of here!  Leave me alone!”
A cold wind came rushing down the stairs, sending dust and debris spiraling across the room, and hitting the old man hard in the chest.  He doubled back and hit his head against a wood panel from his cabinet.  His vision blurred and he could feel tiny prickles run across his neck down to his spine. 
“Play! Play! Play!” screeched the child-like voice.  “With me!”
The old man’s head was spinning.  It felt like his eyes were in a washing machine; he leaned over and vomited yellow pus on the carpet. 
The room felt and sounded as if the entire house was being lifted off the ground by a tornado.  The air was frozen, and continued to spiral around the room, but the old man was sweating from the head down.  His shirt was covered in large patches of moisture and his breathing sounded worse than before.
“Are you going to play?” said the voice in an innocent tone; almost upset, like a child asking if they can sleep in bed with their parents when they’re scared, but only to get sent back to their room.
The old man looked up through foggy eyes, not seeing the girl.  He blinked several times, but his vision remained black.  He didn’t see the little girl with the empty eye sockets, wearing a cream-colored dress that floated away from her levitating body in a bluish mist.  He didn’t see her face, one side burnt to a crisp, with folds of rippled and scorched flesh hanging from her nose, lips, cheeks, and chin; nor could he see the other side carved with shredded cuts, causing light from inside her mouth to escape through.
“I don’t want to play!” yelled the old man.  Tears flowed across his wrinkled face.  “Leave me alone!”
The little girl’s mouth twitched.  Her eye sockets sunk in defeat and pain.  She began to cry.
The old man rose, slowly getting his sight back.  He didn’t know much about supernatural shit, but he opened up his drawer, scrambling for his pistol.  The little girl was still weeping, playing with her dress that was stained with fresh, bloody tears.
The old man gripped the barrel of the pistol and pointed it at the little girl.  “Now I’m going to finish you off for good.”
The little girl looked up, her sockets covered with blood.  She wiped her face, streaking her cheek with crimson stains, and played with her bloody fingers. 
“You a mean man,” the little girl choked.
“And you’re a freaky bitch,” the old man laughed.  “Even though you put up quite a fight”—he gestured at his hurt leg-- “You were a good little fuck, but I’m tired of you sticking around my house.” He pointed the barrel at the little girl’s head.  “Now be a good girl and go bye-bye!”
“Mean man!  Mean man! Mean man!” the little girl chanted.
The old man pulled the trigger, and the little girl evaporated into an ocean-glowing cloud of smoke.  A bullet hole was sighted along the wall in the direction the old man shot at. 
“What the he—“
The old man coughed up a bubble that resembled a big, red balloon.  The little girl was behind him, her hand sticking through his back and out the other side of his belly.  The old man spat up a mouthful of blood from his throat like a volcano, and sank to his knees, choking.
“Mean man.  Mean man.” The little girl’s white lips turned upward in a fluttery smile of joy.  “Now we play new game!”
The old man closed his eyes, watching the darkness flow across his eyes.
“Let’s play dead, okay?  You first! Play dead, play dead!”
Blood overflowed out of the old man’s gaping mouth.  The pain was beginning to fade like his vision.  But even after he had died, he was haunted by the sound of a child’s voice still.  It was so clear, almost as if she was all around him; he could hear her screaming next to his ear in the dark.
“Play dead! Play dead! Play dead!”