What happened to Jordan Edwin at 13 Darlon Avenue will always haunt me. Of course I can’t confide in anyone- no one would believe me. I’ve always kept it to myself- until now. If you ever move onto Darlon Avenue, here’s some advice- don’t move into house 12, and under no circumstances should you ever move into house 13. Of course that wouldn’t be possible- unless they’ve decided to re-build it. I regret ever saying that. Rebuilding house 13 would mean that Lesley’s Curse would become even worse- then I would never be safe. No one would be safe.
You’re probably wondering why I’m so scared of house thirteen and Darlon Avenue; why I’m even telling this story. Well this story is a warning. If you don’t take my advice and decide to move into 12- Just remember that I warned you.
Darlon Avenue was right in the middle of a small historical neighbourhood. Lots of the families had been living in the houses for generations- but not mine. My father was a writer- he loved horrors and mysteries, and he had a habit of moving us to places where his books took place. Right now, he was in the middle writing a mystery about a haunted house that had been abandoned in World War II. But that’s not the point- the point is that horrible things happened on that street- in that house- things that I will never forget. It all started on a rainy October afternoon.
I tapped on the cold window with my finger. It was raining again. My family had only been in our new house for a few days and everything seemed to be going wrong. First my father had twisted his ankle moving furniture into the house, then my mother found a small fire in the kitchen- but no one had been using the stove. I had heard some kids saying that house 13 on my street-which happened to be across the street from mine- is cursed and that the curse has been linked to my house.
I had never been scared by ghost stories and things like that- but the house looked so- haunted. The house had obviously been destroyed by a fire, but no one had bothered to fix it. I couldn’t see anything through the windows but sometimes I thought- sometimes I could see a figure in the window.
I told myself that there was no figure there- that I was just imagining it – but just the house itself looked evil. It was scorched black- but it had a weird colour to it. It seemed blood red. As if the house had been drenched in blood and after a few years, the blood had dried. I always wondered why no one had repaired it or torn it down. But I never wondered why it was burned- and why everyone was so afraid of the house. I was a different girl back then- way too practical- no curiosity. I only looked at the facts- never dared to dream or wonder. Maybe if I had had a greater knowledge of curses and ghosts, maybe if I had a more open mind- maybe I could have helped Jordan….
But this story is not about him- this is about making sure what happened all those years ago would never happen again. This is a warning.
As I looked at the house, my older sister Gwen sauntered into my room, “Hey Dana,” she said in her annoying big sister voice, “still checking out Jordan?”
“Shut up,” I replied. She always noticed everything I had only glanced at Jordan once - who lived in house 10- and she automatically picked up that I had a crush on him. It wasn’t a lie- but that didn’t mean she had to tease me about it.
“O-oh,” she said in a sing song voice, plopping herself down on my bean-bag chair, “you’re looking at house thirteen! You’ve heard about the curse right?”
“I don’t believe it,” I said, “I’m not a little kid Gwen, you can’t scare me with stupid ghost stories.”
Now that was a lie. I had never believed those stories but it didn’t mean they never creeped me out. It didn’t help that my sister, had pale skin, wore dark clothes and so much black makeup she looked like a ghoul herself. Telling ghost stories is way more affective when you looked like one of the un-dead.
