The leaves hadn't even turned brown before the first suicide of the year.
At St. Briar's University, the stakes are so high that at least one suicide is expected. In a world full of privilege and royalty, poison and snakes, students are expected to...
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'if you made a list of people that you trusted
would you put your name down? do you know who you are?'
(nf)
>>>
atticus
It's easy to tell that something bad happened here.
Not because there's ghosts or flames or blood, but because as soon as you come near the dilapidated house deep in the woods, a chill will crawl up your spine. The eerie silence of the breakdown house seems ominous enough, but I think what's more disturbing is the fact that it seems to have been abandoned decades ago.
The general framework of the house is still up, although shabby and rusted. The rooted, wooden stairs under my feet creak as I climb them, drawing further to the doorway.
There is no door; where it went is a mystery, like the rest of the house. The porch is faded, a shattered rocking chair a pile of old bones near the entrance.
Inside, amongst the peeling plaster and paint of the wall, I call out for someone, anyone, half hoping I was alone, the other half hoping I would stumble upon another soul who was just as lost as me.
To my relief and dread, no one responds. The silence is so loud, pressing into my ears, chilling my brain.
I am alone, but I fear I am not.
The floor is covered in broken bits of furniture, shards of woods and shattered glass. Rats had created a home for themselves in the fireplace, using odds and ends they'd recovered from the house-old rags, bits of wrappers, candles and flea riddled pillows.
I pass through the living room to the sitting room and come upon an old, broken piano. The keys are covered in dust, some of them missing. There are wrinkled yellow pieces of paper resting at the top; upon closer examination, I can determine that they're music sheets.
I glance around the room- there's a coffee table that collapsed in the center of the room, the couches covered in a delicate flower pattern. It reminds me of my grandmother's house: maternal, dainty...dead.
Mysterious spots mark the floor, the carpet.
I shudder, hoping against all hope that it wasn't what I think it was.
I end up in the foyer, staring up the spiraling staircase. Some of the steps are caved in, others barely hanging on.
I cling to the rotted wooden banister as I tiptoe up the stairs, the thought of falling through sending my stomach swooping.
At the top of the landing, the hallway turns left, opening up to three bedrooms. The first room looks like it once belonged to a little girl; two little girls in fact. The beds are caved in, but the faded white covers reveal the same pink and blue flowered print.
