haunted - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Deep into the far reaches of the art gallery, there was one room that held an ominous air. The pale green walls peeled slowly with the layers of makeup and the floors bowed under your feet with each step you took; servants to your weight. The door, heavy as it was, creaked and groaned every time it tried to open on its own. Something dark and cold waited behind every tall shelf that bent under the weight of age. Mold invaded the ceiling tiles and flaked off at every chance so that it could seep into the waiting lungs of the unexpected and grow dangerously there. Scratched into the rotting wood of the door to the very far end of the green room, just above the century old handle forever resides the words, 'Someplace better than this'.
As Marvin moved through the door he thought he heard laughter, not quite happy though, more sniggering and triumphant. He hadn't slept well the night before for worrying about what he would do with this ancient house that had been passed down to him from an obscure relative. It was in the will that whomever took it over must live there a full month before they could sell it. It was just odd, but 30 days isn't long and he could sell it for land value after that. Once over the threshold the door slammed shut. He turned to look at it, there was no wind. Then the lock clicked, the grime covered mullioned windows became solid wall and with their disappearance he was unable to see even his own feet. Before he was able to scream he felt his mouth seal shut. Eyes appeared in the blackness with no form and then the apparition of a gaunt man appeared around them, first faint and then almost as solid as a flesh and blood person. He was glowing, smiling, rubbing his hands together.
Still surrounded by brown cardboard boxes, they opened a bottle of red wine. They toasted their new home, their married home, a home for their children to come. Sure it was a fixer upper, but it had been such a steal. The locals wouldn't consider it, there was a grisly history of murders dating back over a hundred years. "To silly superstition!" they said with a chink of crystal. Before the wine touched their lips there came the sound of sharpening knives. At first it was as soft as a whisper and sounded quite distant, but it grew in intensity until it was right next to their ears. They looked at each other, now pale, all their bravado had gone. Turning to run they fell one on top the other, their feet had been silently bound with blood stained twine. Cold sharp steel they could not see danced over their skin. The last thing they saw was a transparent girl, herself splattered with blood, crying in the corner. Then the knife they could feel became visible and to it was attached a ghoul.
Everyone knew the old house was haunted. It was run as a hotel and it's status brought ghost hunters from around the world to sleep in the arcane four poster beds. There was no running water or electricity and the windows were single pane, but other than that it was in good repair for a mansion of it's era. There was debate about whether the cackles and giggles were real or staged. Once in a while a guest snapped a burred shot of white light in an otherwise dark room. Visitors swore they got chills as unseen spectres passed through them. Then came Halloween night. Every guest had vanished in the morning. The police were brought in but not a trace of anyone was found. Their luggage was untouched, not a thing stolen. Sniffer dogs and infra-red scanners found nothing. The case went cold. Then the old place was bought up by a city dweller for dimes and he started the whole thing up again. More tourists came, but the prices were ten fold. They got fancy dinners and a wall certificate.
There is no wind; the air is more stagnant than that in the old mansion we enter for the night. Yet once the old door is heaved to a close there is a howl, soft and whining, as if a gale means to bring a storm upon us. Given the lingering heat of fall the old drawing room is surprisingly cold, enough to raise the hairs on our bare arms and necks. Yasin points to a rocking chair no-one recalls seeing before, it's moving. Slowly it rocks back and forth by the empty hearth, empty aside from a dusty old cushion.
This house has lain dormant for three decades, empty since the old owners were shot, children and all. There was an almighty storm that night and in it even the soldiers took the opportunity to cry, their tears indistinguishable from the cold rain. When the raging heavens became quiet the only evidence of the violence was six shallow graves, though where they are its impossible to tell. It's hardly anyone's first choice of shelter, but tonight its the only place no-one will think to look in. Even if they do it's got more false walls than a Scooby Doo haunted house.
Going inside sets my heart beating faster than I knew it could. The old copper pipes sing for no reason and a storm can be heard battering the windows even though the weather is fine. Dust lies as thick as first snow over everything, perfectly undisturbed. It's spooky but it's my only hope. Then a light flickers on in the dining room, more yellow than any I've ever seen...
"HAuNtEd" was painted in white-wash over the bubbling black paint, the rusting paint-can and brush left to congeal on the front step. Neala gave Todd the subtle shake of her head that meant "non-negotiable" and so they turned in silence to retrace the winding path to the street. They stopped. In front of them was the same black door, the same can of old paint, only now it had a brass knocker with a lion's head. Neala turned her head right around this time, eyes wide, mouth slack. Again they turned and walked back the other way, this time eyes trained on the path, unblinking. Sure enough they came back to the door, only this time it was already open and from inside came the smell of baking potatoes...
From the outside the old house was nothing special, the same Victorian brick as the rest of the street. If anything it was a little more wonky, the window frames so rotten they barely held the glass. India stepped in, her eyes met with only blackness and the dank smell of mildew. She pulled a matchbook from her jean pocket and dropped a few before one lit. Instead of dancing about the head of the match like crazy hair the light arced away from her like a golden rainbow. She looked harder into the gloom to see a glowing outline of a girl, but before she could scream the flame met her fingers and she dropped it, the tiny fire extinguishing as it fell.