cant think of a title comment me with ideas

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
a short description about a scary house!!!!

Submitted: February 01, 2008

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Submitted: February 01, 2008

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The sky fell in icy shards, shooting from the stormy heavens.  The eerie silence was punctuated with the booming shouts of thunder.  Electric strokes of pure, bright-white light painted the sky with abstract energy.  Silence and noise in a perfect harmony, a song of fear blasting into the night.

 

The gate screeched like a frightened owl impaled on a rusty barbeque skewer.  Barbs of violent, ancient bramble grew like a darkly depressing tunnel of impending doom.  The branch of trees, stunted and ugly reached out almost as if they were trying to grab at something or some body.  Dying flowers covered the floor in a carpet of corruption. 

 

The windows cracked and walls weathered by age and neglect, nestled in a blanket of dusty horror.  The fractured front door tumbled back and forth, like a demented grandma in an automated rocking chair. 

 

As the door rocked open lightning flashed exposing the hall, open and rancorous like a septic throat oozing the putrid stench of decay into the body of the house.  The dull and dark space made grey with dust.  No wallpaper is visible only a thick layer of green mould.

 

The kitchen cloaked in sadness, forlorn with the tears a dripping tap echoing off the grimy tiles.  Pans with the remains of long ago meals sit on top of stained steel draining board. Knife blunted by time scattered like pieces of a game litter the floor.

 

Living room is abandoned and almost empty apart from the rats feasting on the remnants of past elegance.  The growing living mould permeates every piece of forgotten furniture.  No people, now only the advancing army of decay requisitioning the house as a staging post in the war again a bright clean shinny home.

 

Stairs rising from the cloying decay in a creaking song of ghosts going to bed.  A wooden hill that leads to nowhere. 

 

A bedroom door blows open, exposing the interior gloom.  A lonely rotting bed lies there covered only with a ripped blanket stained green by damp to match the shredded curtains and crumbling walls.  A dressing table sits alone under the cracked window empty except for a small music box, silent, in the past it played a sad metallic song.  A torn net curtain flies across the room like a bride running in a June rain shower. 

 

The smell of old stagnant water draws the attention away from the bedroom.  It is a small room, airless enclosed by the dank waters left lying in solitary darkness in the bath.  Bright plastic duck sit in sad contemplation on the slime covered windowsill.  The ceiling long ago gave up it battle with the element.  The ceiling’s total surrender has exposed the rafted and debris of year of hording and collecting future junk. 

 

A flash of light, a growl of thunder roars like a lion pouncing on a helpless pray lights up the attic like the insides of a wildebeest.  Long forgotten toys are scattered like bones upon the shredded floor.  Bats circle like vultures above a decomposing corpse then fly off taking with them all natural life.


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