Murder at Huntington Manor

Huntington Manor is a place of murder and betrayal.
Willow Taylor is writing an article in History about Huntington Manor.She is told to visit it but there is a myth that whoever goes in there dies, they get murdered by Tobias Huntington the son who was mistreat and caused the death of the Huntingtons. After Willow goes to the house strange things happen to her. Is someone trying to kill Willow? And will Willow be the one to save Tobias from not being loved?
This story is a mystery,a bit scary, fantasy and romance book.

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11. Return to the manor

The house gloomed over the cobbled road, casting a dark shadow over the spot I stood. It looked scarier than before more intimidating. I think it looked like this because I had already experienced the feeling you get when you open them wrought iron gates.

Taking a deep breath the gate opened once again. More leaves had joined the dead ones, some of the trees, which had nested birds, were now strewn upon the floor. The gravestones were still unkempt same as the manor itself.

An oak wooden door stood in front of me challenging me to come in. All I need to do is get my phone and leave I thought to myself again and again. A golden door knob was all you could see on the door, it was strangely well kept still shining new. My hand quivered as I reached for the handle 5...4...3...2...1....locked! I pull at the well polished handle once again, no budge. Come on wind open the door again, like last time.

The crow bar in my backpack digs into me, I may as well try. Carefully lifting it out the bag, I start whacking at the door. Thud after thud! A dent starts to form, then a split then a gaping hole.

‘Yes!’ I huff. Putting the crow bar back into my bag, I make my way through the gap.

The damp smell lingered in the air, suddenly a sharp pain shot through my leg. A huge gash travels up my leg, blood dripping to the floor. ‘Crap!’

I need to support it, but unfortunately I did not pack a bandage. My scarf! Unravelling it from my neck I look at it for a few minutes, this was my best scarf. Mum had got me it last Christmas and I use it all the time. It is white and has little red bows on. I have to do it though; I was going to lose too much blood. Wrapping it tightly the blood stopped but my leg still hurt. A crimson patch formed on my scarf, sniffing I start my search.

There was only one room I was in and it was this one. It cannot have gone far. Searching the floor, I found nothing. What about near the cabinet with the picture. No just the dusty old frames with....him.

In the distance, I hear a bleeping noise. It is coming from one of the corridors, there were four of them. The bleeping carried on. There was a sign above each hallway one had Kitchens the other drawing room. Taking my first left, which was the Kitchen, I start my journey. The hallway smells damp and like decomposing animals. Bones crunch under my feet as I walk, dead birds and rats probably....hopefully.  Pictures and tapestries drape the walls. Many are aged with frayed edges and some seem to be preserved in excellent quality.

 Bleep, bleep, bleep! There it is again, but this time louder. Ahead I see a flashing light, getting closer I can distinctly see it is a phone....my phone.

5 missed calls and 6 messages. Mainly of Izzy I guessed. The phone vibrates in my hand, looking down I have a new message but before I could read it the screen went black. Letters started to form on the screen. ‘Run my love, you are going to be found. Run!’ The phone burns in my finger, I yelp as it drops to the ground. The phone turns over without my touch and starts to rise to my eye level. Within a second it is gone, flying down the stone staircase. I follow; the stairs are cold to touch like freezing cold. It was like the winter we had four years ago, where there was no electricity and no escape. My family and I stayed in my house up to a week, playing board games. No lights are on even though there are little candle holders along the wall. Coming to the end of the stairs, I stand in a vast kitchen.

It is amazing; garlic’s still decorate the wall, hanging ready to be cooked. The stone pavement carries on down here but it is a lot warmer. Like the opposite fire is still on, it is also amazing; in the grate you can tell there are still embers lingering in there. A chandelier hangs from the ceiling, wax dripping down them, dry. But the thing I was looking for was hovering above the fire and behind a plump woman.

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