There’s a house at the end of the street.
It has a white picket fence and the path to the front door is well-kept.
When you enter the house, it smells like decay and rotten meat.
The floor is clean, and it doesn't squeak when you walk over it.
The only sounds coming from the floor are the screams from the people trapped in the basement.
The living room has the loveliest decor and gorgeous curtains.
You assume the carpet is matching too but you can’t be sure, because it’s covered in blood.
As you walk to the kitchen, you wonder if the blood is going to come out of your shoes.
A little girl is sitting on a chair in the kitchen.
Her dress is pink, with white polka-dots, and she is wearing a matching bow in her blonde, curly hair.
Her clear blue eyes are hanging from her eye sockets, which are surrounded by rotting flesh that is falling off in chunks, landing on the table and the floor.
The counters are so clean that you could practically eat from them.
The utensils are new and the knives are so sharp that you could easily slice a throat open with them.
They say that the attic is empty.
But sometimes the floor up there is squeaking, and blood drips down into the living room.
The backyard is absolutely beautiful.
The rose bushes are blooming and absolutely stunning.
They easily cover the body lying behind them, waiting to get buried.
You can’t even see the holes in the yard, where the other bodies are resting.
The house is the pride of the entire street.
Nobody ever visits, and nobody has ever met the owners.
But the house is absolutely gorgeous, so nobody even bothers questioning it.