"Say Goodnight..."

A mother once told his son:

'The old house that lays upon the hill,
locked away behind the trees,
why it's haunted; should you visit there,
you'll hear The Voice and you will freeze.'

He never listened.

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   The horror movies were right. Uncontrollably, my heart rate rose as my feet shuffled along the damp, crooked floorboards - glistening with obscure moisture in the ominous moonlight. I was shaking. Each movement of the decrepit building in the seemingly still air sent mortifying ripples through my skeleton, forcing my nerves into an extreme sensitivity. As I passed apprehensively through the remains of door frames into unfamiliar, sinister rooms, my nose hair stood on end - detecting the foul and unnerving stench that lingered within the residence. I was cold.

   Oh, so cold.

   The natural warmth of a human being had left me, tainting my remains with a harsh, crushing, impenetrable ice. It seemed neither the largest spark nor the warmest flame free me from the glacier my body had become. I was trapped - the house was inescapable.

Somewhere, an owl hooted in desperation.

              Nearby, a floorboard groaned mercilessly, echoing throughout the ruins.

                              Behind me, a figure breathed into my ear, scraping its way into my skull, crudely clutching the very air out of my lungs.                                                                                               

 

"Say Goodnight..." 

 

A slash, a screech. One final rush of warmth flowed through me.

The final rush,

the last,

the very last.

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