Eyes Like Hellfire [Completed]

Prologue

God, I'm an idiot.

I could hear the wind whistling through the trees and the thunder roaring through the dark skies. I looked back one more time, only to see a crack of lightning penetrate the clouds, the sky screaming in pain shortly after. The heavens cried harder than I'd ever seen before that July night. The rain was warm, but hardly enjoyable when it soaked my clothes as I hurried under the awning of the house, each drop falling a little heavier with my quickening steps.

The closer I came to the house, the faster I ran. I felt as though I was running through time, to the early twentieth century. The house was foreign, unusual, yet there was beauty in every wooden board; every chip of paint that had weathered away over the years didn't tarnish the house, but rather made it more genuine. However, amidst all that beauty, there was a sense of dread that plagued the air.

But where else was I to go? I looked up at the house and the back the way I came; only to see another lightning rod pierce the sky. I then walked through the door of the forbidden house, breaking about half of my Aunt's rules in the process.

I opened the door, its hinges screeching in protest. Obviously this house didn't have many guests. When I got in, everything pitch black, save for the occasional lightning rod illuminating the room. I waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, and after a while my mind pieced together the image of the room.

I saw a large living room holding a massive staircase leading up to a second floor, into the unknown. Around the staircase, I saw a faded sofa on the left side of the room against the wall, and a coffee table accompanying it. To the right of the sofa, there was a white vase containing a single white rose on the rotting end table. The rose had died long ago, but the wilted petals refused to give up their hold on the flower.

To the left: a portrait of a woman. She was about fifty and wore a navy blue gown. Her hair was a wavy dark brown ocean trickling down her body to her hips, her eyes a bottomless pit of charcoal inside pure white snow, daggers piercing into your soul. On her fragile neck was a golden heart shaped locket with a single ruby in the center. Her lips were thin, the color bloody. She was surrounded by teal and the frame was faded gold, littered with flowers and elegance.

I slowly walked into the house, the door closing behind me. I looked back, but thought nothing of it, assuming that it was the violent winds of the storm. The floorboards creaked under the weight of my feet, a little louder with each step adding to the eeriness of the situation. I walked to the banister and held onto the railing, the wood smooth under my wet palms. I slowly crept up the stairs that were dressed with a tattered red gown.

When I got to the top, I saw three doors. I felt like I was on a game of chance, something in my head going pick a card, any card. Curiosity overtook me, and I chose to look in the door on the right first. I tried to open the heavy door by turning the handle, the obvious answer, but that didn't work. I tried it again, but this time in the opposite direction, but it still wouldn't budge. I pushed on the door, nothing. I then banged on the door in frustration, my patience wearing thin due to the fact that I was drenched with water, cold, and my already short temper did not help the situation. I hit the door one more time and groaned. It then, to my surprise, swung open.

I looked in and saw it was a study. There was a desk on the right side of the room. It was a different wood than the other pieces in the house: a lighter type of finish. The chair next to it was the same. It possessed an almost modern design and look, but I knew that was impossible. No one had entered, let alone lived in, this house for about seventy years.

I looked around and there were large wooden bookcases that overtook the walls, acting like a kind of wallpaper. There were materials of all sizes and colors on those shelves, as well as topics. I saw from early twentieth century literature, to research materials, to even a few cookbooks. On one wall, there was another painting, but this one was of a garden. There was an arbor in the center surrounded by a multitude of flowers. Leaving the arbor was an ivory white cobblestone pathway that led to the base of the portrait, which was encased in a time-weathered golden frame. It would have been beautiful, if it had been taken care of.