The People in the Rickety House (novel preview)

Chapter One

(A/N): Hello, all. This is a fairly new story that I wrote - possibly the last one before I pretty much had writer's block for a whole year. This one hasn't been tested yet, meaning that I haven't ever let anyone read the whole thing, so I'd really appreciate some feedback on this one.  Comments really help me to learn how I have presented the story to you - the reader - and what needs to be fixed.

Any speculations, flaws, or helpful criticism is appreciated. Thanks. =) Enjoy. 

RATING: This story is just about as mild as they come for me. There are a few bloody images, some mild language...some horror of course. That's it. Tame tame tame! >.>

Text copyright Lani Lenore

All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be produced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

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                                                    The People in the Rickety House

                                                                     Chapter One 

                                                                               1         

                  As Leah slept, she dreamed a familiar dream.

                 Darkness and fog were thick around her as she trudged up the drive to the rickety house.  She took slow steps along the path, one foot before the other.  The gravel shifted beneath her feet.  She knew she had to reach the porch.  That was her focus.

                 Though the path to the front steps was closing, she felt distant from her goal.  Panic resonated within her stomach at the thought of not gaining ground – that she would never reach the sanctity of the porch – but time brings all things, and somewhere within that time, she arrived.  Ounces of Leah’s fear melted when she felt the solidity of the wooden rail beneath her hand.  She helped herself up the steps, onto the planks that would lead her to the door. 

                 The doorknob was neither cold nor warm, but she felt it in her grasp.  Without turning the knob, she was able to push the door open by the simple weight of her hand.  The creak of the hinges was long and loud, like a cat’s yowl of warning.  She could not heed to any possible danger, however.  She stepped inside, onto the scarred wooden floor.

                 The interior of the house was as dim and sparse as she remembered.  The wide, open room beyond the door held only a couch, a chair, and an old TV on the far end.  The furniture was like a group of outcasts communing around a fire, sorrowfully recollecting better days. 

                 I’ll bet dead soldiers don’t care for TV, Leah thought, but soon lost that musing as she recalled why she had come to the house – why she had come so far in the pouring rain that had just started up outside.