Twisted Every Way.

There is a little house that looks no different from the rest. It is quaint, and homey, and a delightful little family lives there; the rooms are tidy, clean, cared for.

Except for one.

Because no matter how normal this house looks, it has a dark secret.

Up on the third floor is a room that forever remains locked. The room beyond the un-opening door was once just as well loved as the rest of the home, but is now filled with dust, gloom, and despair. The sheets on the bed that were once bright and cheerful are tattered and moth eaten; the vanity mirror which once reflected a bright and eager face is tarnished and warped; a table that had been covered in cherished bric-a-brac sits in a lonely corner on its side, its' burden laying scattered and broken upon the floor; the shelves on the wall that used to house countless books and beloved stuffed animals now hang carelessly from their pegs ready to fall to the ground, much of their contents having already plummeted to the raggedy rug below; and curtains that had added a touch of whimsical romance to the room are now threadbare and faded, blocking grimy windows from admitting any light into the dust laden room. It is not a happy place.

But it had been, once. Laughter had painted its insides with delight. Lullabies had covered it in lazy comfort. Stories had nourished it. It had been a world unto itself; a lone island of fun and fantasy in a sea of disappointment. But with time its armored sides had succumb to attack; the fortress had fallen victim to that cruel sea. Disappointment had flooded every last corner of the room and now it stood a barren shell, a complete mockery of what it had once been, of what it had once housed.

And housed still. Because that was the darkest secret of all: it was not an empty room.

Haunted.

Haunted by the very thing that had once produced so much happiness and childish wonder. Haunted by a miserable wretch that was unable to move on, to reconcile its past. Haunted by a ghost that was tied to this world against its will.

Retribution. Punishment. Revenge. The words circle endlessly, ripping broken sobs out of the figure huddled against the wall.

"You have no power over me," the figure whispers with a slight croak, and the room shivers in fright when this statement is only met with malicious laughter. Drawing up the last few shreds of comfort left in its old wooden boards, the room tries to sooth its specter.

Wailing rings out, shaking the house down to its foundation, and the family within considers moving. They will not be the first to do so. Nor will they be the last. By tomorrow there will be a 'For Sale' sign up; within a month the house will shall be in new hands. And for the first few weeks the knob of the un-opening door will rattle and shake violently as the terror within is forced to watch everything it ever loved be destroyed in another little way.

"Let me go," it sobs, trying to push beyond the four walls that have become its prison. But it can't.

Because no one defies the Goblin King.


A/N: This sick little ditty just popped into my head this morning. I'll leave it up to you to draw conclusions; it can be as simple as you want it, or insanely complex if you think about WHO that specter could be. This story is meant as a one-shot, and has nothing to do with my on going chaptered fic, Dramatic Orchestrations.