Where the Shadows Bloom (Unedited)

The Haunted Rocking Horse

The wind howled like a banshee, tearing through the ancient oaks that surrounded Creaking Hollow. Rain lashed against the grimy windows of the dilapidated mansion, each drop exploding like a tiny gunshot. Bartholomew, a man who considered himself an adventurer, stood shivering on the porch, clutching his trusty flashlight. Legends spoke of Creaking Hollow's haunted past, of ghostly children and spectral butlers, but Bartholomew scoffed at such tales. He prided himself on his logic and reason, though his definition of logic was often questioned by those who knew him.

With a deep breath that fogged up the chilly air, Bartholomew pushed open the creaking door. The hinges groaned in protest, sounding like a chorus of tormented souls. Inside, the air hung heavy with the scent of damp wood and forgotten memories. Cobwebs draped like macabre decorations, and dust lay thick on every surface. Bartholomew, however, was undeterred. He was on a mission to debunk the myths surrounding Creaking Hollow. He would prove, once and for all, that ghosts were nothing more than overactive imaginations and creaky floorboards.

He ventured deeper into the house, his flashlight beam cutting through the oppressive darkness. Each step he took was accompanied by a symphony of creaks and groans, as if the house itself was trying to warn him away. Portraits of stern-faced individuals lined the walls, their eyes seeming to follow his every move. Bartholomew, ever the pragmatist, attributed this to the flickering shadows cast by his flashlight.

Suddenly, a faint giggle echoed from the depths of the house. Bartholomew froze, his heart doing a rather impressive imitation of a tap-dancing penguin. He cautiously followed the sound, his flashlight beam dancing nervously across the walls. He found himself in a dusty nursery, filled with forgotten toys and cobweb-covered dolls. In the center of the room stood a rocking horse, its worn paint peeling like sunburnt skin. The giggle came again, and Bartholomew swore he saw the rocking horse move, ever so slightly.

Now, Bartholomew wasn't a superstitious man, but even he had to admit that this was a little creepy. He cautiously approached the rocking horse, his flashlight beam fixed on its vacant eyes. He reached out a tentative hand, his fingers hovering just above the worn wood.

“Hello?” he called out, his voice a shaky whisper.

Silence.

Bartholomew, emboldened by the lack of response, decided to take a closer look. He placed his hand on the rocking horse's head, and that's when all hell broke loose.

The rocking horse let out an ear-splitting shriek, a sound that seemed to shake the very foundations of the house. The lights flickered and died, plunging Bartholomew into absolute darkness. He stumbled back, tripping over a forgotten teddy bear and landing with a thud on the dusty floor. When he scrambled to his feet, his flashlight beam shaking like a leaf, the rocking horse was still. But now, it was facing the other way.

Bartholomew, convinced that he had stumbled upon a genuine haunted rocking horse, decided that discretion was the better part of valor. He fled the nursery, his flashlight beam bouncing wildly off the walls as he ran. He didn't stop running until he burst out of the front door and into the stormy night.

The next day, however, his adventure took an unexpected turn. He received a rather sternly worded letter from the Creaking Hollow Homeowners Association, demanding payment for damages caused by his unauthorized rocking horse ride. Apparently, his panicked flight had resulted in a rather impressive trail of destruction, including a shattered vase, a toppled bookshelf, and a rather unfortunate incident involving a grandfather clock. Bartholomew, sighing, paid the bill, vowing never to mess with haunted rocking horses or homeowners associations ever again.