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Randall Davis Barfield

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Are You Happy?
By Randall Davis Barfield
Friday, August 10, 2007

Rated "PG" by the Author.

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This story took place in Decatur, Georgia, when the town was in its early days. Ingrid Boyd had always said she wasn’t afraid of the dark, but this was something else. Her sister, Hannah, had locked Ingrid inside the old tool shed out back of the house. Their parents had gone off to some Halloween faculty party in Atlanta, so, they couldn’t hear Ingrid’s cries and pleas. Hannah, fourteen at the time, was ‘babysitting’ Ingrid, who was ten.


“I’ll let you out in ten minutes if you promise to quit screaming,” Hannah said.


When Ingrid didn’t answer, Hannah presumed she agreed (What choice did she have?) and went back inside the house to make a glass of lemonade and continue reading Jane Eyre. She looked at the wall clock. It was 6:20 so she’d need to go back out to the tool shed at 6:40 or 6:45. What were five or ten minutes?


“Okay, Sassy, I’m back.  I’ll just open the door now. Are you happy?”


Ingrid made no sound. Hannah thought that was strange. Ingrid wasn’t normally that quiet. She hurried to get the door open. When it opened, she walked in. She didn’t see Ingrid though.


“You’re hiding. Can’t fool me. Like mom says, Think I was born yesterday?” Hannah said in the stillness.


She moved shovels, rakes, an old tire, and other things looking for her sister. Nothing. Now Hannah was truly worried. Also, what if her parents came back early from the party for some reason? How would she explain herself?


Finally she found Ingrid sitting on the floor behind a barrel. She was ready to give her a good scolding when she noticed the funny sitting position and the blood. It oozed from Ingrid’s mouth. When she slightly shook Ingrid, she fell over sideways on the floor. Hannah ran from the tool shed screaming for a neighbor.


Nobody could figure out Ingrid’s death for sure. Things just didn’t add up. The door to the tool shed had not been forced. The two windows were secured and found as they normally were. Ingrid had no scratch marks or broken bones. Finally the coroner just wrote “fright.” Death by fright. Nobody agreed, but nobody knew anything else to put either.





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Reviewed by michelle noble 8/18/2007
ok that was good but you got me wanting to know more like what exactly killed the girl you know stuff like that i think you could build on this very good though reminds me of stuff my sister did to me and i her
Reviewed by Winter Knight 8/11/2007
I think I should be nicer to my sibling now

Very nice!
Reviewed by Karen Lynn Vidra, The Texas Tornado 8/11/2007
Harrowing story, Randy; very well and chillingly penned! BRAVO!

(((HUGS))) and much love, your friend in Tx., Karen Lynn. :D
Reviewed by Georg Mateos 8/11/2007
Killing by fright, a perfect murder.
From now on I will see people with different look in my eyes.
Reviewed by Brett Moore 8/10/2007
Fantastic story! Great buildup with an excellent payoff. Interesting title, too.

Reviewed by Sage Sweetwater 8/10/2007
The DNA of story sample may tell another story...perhaps a moody ghost with a Polaroid has the bloody answer...fright, I'm not sure...your storytelling here turns a different corner, Randall, taking it into a deeper've learned much from Guy Hogan and his valuable flash fiction well...Blessed Be.


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Randall Davis Barfield

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