Infamously outspoken journalist Bulma Briefs walks up to the old, decayed building that looked as if it had been build centuries ago. It was dark and creepy, sending shivers up her spine with every glance. She didn't like how the wind seemed to eerily lure her glance to it, like a bad automobile accident.
"Are....Are you sure I have the right house?" She asked the agent, who appeared next to her with his clipboard and pen.
"Yep. That was the Briefs'."
"But...Isn't it a little old?"
"No. They were just...old-fashioned. You know old people," He replied with a shrug as he went up the old stairs.
Pursing her lips and pushing away the doubts in her mind, she went up to the cracked, woody stairs herself. He opened the door for her before following close behind her. Inhaling dust, she walked in slowly, her eyes newborn and wandering to the mansion's greeting area in front of her.
"This was the greeting area," the agent voiced,"Where many guests were greeted, hence the title. Your parents were prone to throw parties, the citizens said."
She was silent as she looked around, wishing she knew what he was talking about. Her parents were very disclosed people, not anti-social, just uninterested in social gatherings. Her father was a painter, very focused on his work. Her mother was at first a model, but then a housewife when Bulma was born. Neither were very social.
Then they went up the stairs, which went two seperate ways at the top. He took her to the right hallway, where there were at least six doors. They went through each one, some Bulma could name, some she could barely see through the cobwebs and dust, nonetheless recognize.
The agent took her then to the left hallway. They entered a room of what looked like a child's playroom. A flashing light caught her eye, and she looked down instinctively, but only to find a mirror on the surface of a dresser.
Picking it up with curiousity, her mind's eye traveled back to a time when a reflection was a nightmare...
"No! No! I don't wanna go with you!"
"Yes...Yes, you will. Start now. Start."
The glass crashed to the floor, ceramic colour flying everywhere, and all she could remember and feel were those colours piercing into her skin as she collapsed to the wooden attic floor.
She went back over to the mansion the next morning. After the shaky flashback in the playroom, she was hesitant to return. But she did, because it fueled her to figure out that house, what it had to do with her. She wanted answers.
Instead of entering the house, she went out to the back where the courtyard and orchid were. A small smile played along her features at the peaceful surroundings, and she felt a sudden tweak of familiarity pull at her as her cerculean eyes swept along every bush and withered tree in the yard. She felt as if she had been there before, in another lifetime.
But she had have been there before. She grew up there.
Yet, she just couldn't find the memories to prove it. Nothing seemed to click.
Shaking her head to erase the confusion, she went back around to the front door. She put her hand through the rings to open it, but it wouldn't budge. That's when she noticed the lock. Rolling her eyes, she fished out the keys from her pocket. As she was doing that, a movement caught the corner of her eye.
She swung her head to where it was, but it had vanished. Her breath bunched into a ball in her throat when she realized that maybe seeing it two times ruled out the possibility of it being only her imagination...
Unlocking the door and going inside, she closed the molded door behind her. She ran up the stairs to the right hallway, her eyes flying to the set of stairs at the very end of it, that feeling of forbidden temptation filling her.
"Hey, why aren't we going up there?" Bulma pointed to the stairs at the end of the hallway, and then looked back at the agent, who had lost the colour in his face.
"That...is not a place we need to visit. But you must vow with the sake of your life held dearly to you, that you will NEVER enter that room, ."
She knew that he was probably right, by the tone he had said it, as if he would lose his own life too if she went up there. But still, suriousity was a powerful force in a journalist such as Bulma. It always had been, that was why she had the job.
It took eleven steps to the attic stairs from the hallway, a nervous Bulma counted. She got to the front step, raised her foot and-
It was glass shattering downstairs, everywhere. The sound pierced her ears and her chest, slitting through what she had previously focused on. Without a second's hesitation, she ran downstairs and into the kitchen, which was just as gloomy as the rest of the mansion.
Her eyes suspiciously and cautiously wandered the room, especially on the floor. She found no glass there, so she went to the family room. And there it was. A picture frame in shambles on the dusty, wooden tile. She stopped before the glass mess, wanting nothing but to step away from it and call it the wind. But she couldn't.
She picked up the frame, and who she saw on it caused her heart to shatter inside her chest, even harder than the glass had.
I thought this would a good one to start around Halloween.
please r/r, since you can't send me candies over the internet xD
or ELSE: this will stay a cliffy