(Reprinted by permission all rights reserved (c) C.M. Mayo "Giant Golden Buddha and 364 More 5 Minute Writing Exercises" www.cmmayo.com/d5mwe.html)
The house is shrouded by overgrown trees, their branches scraping against the windows and blocking the sunlight. But no birds sing. The decorative windows on the french doors are broken; only jagged fragments, like rows of sharp teeth, remain. Inside, the air is stale and musty, so thick with foul smells it makes you gag. As your eyes adjust to the darkness, you manuever down the front hallway. Spiderwebs cling to your face and arms, making you jump. You reach out to steady yourself against the wall and brush your fingers against something damp and slimy. You recoil in horror and walk faster.
At first glance the house almost appears to still be inhabited: books lay scattered on the coffee table, some open as if they were still being read; rotted fruit is piled in a basket on the kitchen counter; beds are unmade; laundry is left unfolded. But a thick layer of dust coats the shelves, tables, the old grandfather clock, still slowly ticking. No one living has been here for a very long time.
Everywhere there is that sensation of being watched--as if a pair of eyes lurked behind every sofa, every rail of the banister, every closed door, but a glance reveals nothing. The only sounds are the screeching of the trees against the windows, anxious to get in, the slow tick of the grandfather clock, and the uneasy rattle of your own breath.
***Anyone have any real-life haunted house stories to share? Growing up, I was sure my parents' house was haunted, but that's a story for another day.
The Brown-Eyed Girl