Introduction

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
The very, very first theme on the list.

1. introduction.

How every theme describes a moment in time.

A little changed from the original ro reflect a change in some details and a definite change in writing style. I have no idea why I chose second person for this one.

I've been told it's vaugely creepy, especially in conjunction with some of the later themes.

Submitted: June 25, 2008

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Submitted: June 25, 2008

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The house is boarded up and appears deserted. Some of the windows are broken, a gateway into the shadowed depths within, another sign that it's currently uninhabited.

You hop the garden fence and swing up through the bay window, narrowly avoiding getting caught in the torn and dusty curtain. Inside, the house is untouched, thick layers of dust covering every surface. Unlike the rest of the houses in this area, it hasn't been looted; apparently, the rumors surrounding it protect it even now. You get the feeling that it was abandoned long before the breakout, and that the former occupants were so desperate to leave they took nothing with them.

There's a distant groan from two blocks to the south, so you stop examining your surroundings and head for the stairwell, hoping to find a secure place to hide. You stumble over a large book, and scoop it up as you hurry on. At the very end of the hall on the second floor, you see a rope hanging down, the only access to an attic room. It seems the safest place to be at the moment, so you pull, wincing as the stairs, rusty and creaking from disuse, slam down in a cloud of dust. You climb the stairs, coughing, and notice that the trap door has been modified to be replaced from the top. You close it, blocking the only access to the room, and look around.

It was a girl's room at one point, probably shared by two sisters. There's a twin bed and dresser at either side of the room, and identical desks stand side by side across from you. The bedclothes are motheaten and filthy, and you can just barely make out the pattern on the coverlet, a cheery pastel flower print that's echoed in the torn wallpaper. One side of the room holds trophy after trophy, for sports like Lacrosse, Volleyball, Softball, and Track. The other has a few watercolors of various parks in the area, at differing seasons. An easel is set up between the desks, in front of the window, and you step behind it. A half finished oil portrait of two smiling young women stares back at you, paints dry and cracked on the pallet, one brush permenently stuck to it. There are others standing in a glass on the desk beside you, and it's now obvious that the former occupants of this room left in a rush, not even stopping to pack up paints and portrait. You back into the windowseat behind you, slightly unnerved by the painting, and examine the book in your arms.

It's a photo album, full of snapshots from the daily lives of the family who owned this house. Most of them are of two twin girls at varying ages, occasionally accompanied by their parents and other people who appear to be relatives or friends of the family.

A picture of one girl dumping mud on the other's head, at about the age of four; a polariod of them riding the same horse on a merry-go-round, steadied by a tall man with graying hair who appears to be their father; a hand drawn portrait of their mother in a child's hand, probably by the same girl who owned the paints; a school photo of them, dressed in dark blue uniforms, standing at either end of the same row of students, neither smiling; a photo of them dressed in white and holding prayer books in front of a cathedral, after receiving thier first comunion.

The twins grow, and the quality of the hand drawn and occasionally painted portraits improves as you turn the pages, their father vanishing after they appear older than six.

A team photo, one of the two sitting in the middle holding a trophy, the other, not dressed in the blue and white uniform the rest of the team wears, holding a first aid kit; a small watercolor painting of one girl and their mother, standing in front of a fountain; another school photo, for a public school this time, of the pair, still standing at either end of the same row of students, though this time both smile; a photo of one dumping sand down the other's swimsuit at the beach.

Eventually, thre are no more photos, the point when the album was left behind.

The last thing in it is a picture of the twins, at the age of 16, standing under a tree with flowers in their hands, paying their respects to an old grave.


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