The pitter patter of rain drops fill the outside, as a gentle rain covers the skies of a quiet mid-July night. Headlights shine through the streets of London, brightening the dimly lit roads. "Too much longer in this rain, and it'll get so bad I can't see!" A light caramel skinned girl with wavy midnight colored hair and dark eyes leaned, squinting nearer the windshield. The rain began to get heavier. The girl was an obvious tourist; she had no knowledge of the streets, and had an old Lincoln car that was clearly American made. "I have to find a place to rest, at least until this rain clears up."
The car stops right outside of this small street house not too far down the road. The caramel colored girl reaches in the back and grabs a large brief case. The heavy rain sounded like a roaring lion. She covered her head with the brief case, then made her way to the door. "Hello?!" She exclaimed as her hand grabbed the knocker and knocked twice. A grunt sounded from the other side of the door then it suddenly opened. A tall slender man stood in the open door way. "Can I help you?" He asked in a raspy British accented voice. His lower face was covered by a short 5 O'clock shadow, and his clothes weren't particularly well kept. "Sorry, I'm new around here and don't have anywhere to stay. I just need to wait the rain out... Is it okay if I come in?" The tired man gingerly steps aside and invites her in.
"Would you like some tea?" The man asks awkwardly.
"Um, yes please."
"So what brings you to London? You're clearly not from around here." His voice sounded from the kitchen.
"School project." She replied as she looked around the fairly empty living area. "I'm a student at Harvard, back in America."
The tall man comes back into the room with two cups of freshly brewed tea. "How interesting. I'm not really a school man myself." He says as he takes a sip of his tea. "I'm more into art." He looked around the room at the paintings that could be seen all over the place. "I'm sorry, where are my manners? My name is Gregory, but most call me Grey." He replied in a much smoother voice than earlier. It seemed as though he had just woken up before. She nodded in a way to show greetings. "My name is Amariah." She said in such a soft tone that made it sound as though she could tame even a rabid dog. Her smile was so vibrant that it was considerably hard for one not to smile back.
"You're an art man? These paintings... Are they yours?"
"No, I love to look at art, so i decorate my house with paintings that other talented artists make." He followed with a chuckle.
"Do you have any of your own?"
"In the other room; would you like to see some of my works?" He asked as he stood up and took his cup and saucer back to the kitchen.
"Uh, sure. I would be glad to take a look."
"I have to warn you, my style is kinda different." He chuckles under his breath. His chuckle couldn't be heard, but could be described only as bodacious.
Grey begins walking toward the other room. About 5 painting canvases and wooden easels are placed in the room, all of which have grey, monotone, and colorless paintings on them. The floor was covered by a large plastic sheet, used to stop paint from dripping on the hardwood, and staining the floor. Amariah walked over to one of the paintings that faced toward the center of the room at around a 45° angle. The sound of crinkling plastic fills the quiet room as she looks in awe. The first picture showed a couple sitting under a big tree, looking up at the star filled sky, as everything around them crumbled. The painting was drawn in an old realism style. "This is amazing... You drew this?" She asked rhetorically. She scuttled her feet across the plastic covered floor, softening the sounds. The second painting was the silhouette of a person standing in the edge of a bridge, staring out over a darkened beach. Two more paintings following the same theme of the dark outdoors and anxiousness. The third; however, was in a different setting. The last painting was of an old and crumbling factory. The ceilings caved in and junk all over. It had a dim yellow circle, representing a flashlight. In the middle of the circle, was a mannequin; covered in a darker crimson from head to toe, the mannequin stood there with it's head hung low and tilted slightly to the left, just... smiling. Amariah shivered from an uneasy feeling. The painting just didn't sit well with her. Grey walks up beside her and places his hand on her shoulder.
"Oh, don't pay the last one any mind. It's my personal take on the old legend of the factorial serial killer. It's said that after Brian, the killer, was gunned down in the old facory, he began haunting the place."
"What's with the mannequin?" She asked in a curious tone.
"Well, it's said to be the object that good ol' Brian likes to use." He takes his hand off her shoulder and points to the mannequin's left hand. "In the legend, everyone killed there, has always been found next to a bloody mannequin, but on it's left hand, is a new finger every time."
"Is it true?" She asked in such an intrigued fashion.
"No, it's just a good legend, made to scare people from going on the property."
"Huh... Mysterious." She replied, displaying an obvious interest in the story. "What do you say, tomorrow night, we go check out the factory?"
Grey's eyebrow raised and his eyes widened. He softened his look and slowly shook his head with a smirk. "It's time we go to bed, don't you think? We'll talk bout it tomorrow." He walked to the door, soon followed by Amariah. He turned the lights off and pointed Amariah to the couch. It was a soft white cotton couch that turned at a 90° angle halfway through. Amariah walks to the couch. "Thanks again..." She said in a slightly baffled tone. Silence rang through the room as Amariah laid down on the couch to sleep.
Amariah woke up early in the morning. The sun shone bright through the curtained drapes. She stood up and stretched as she looked around, remembering where she had stayed the night. Figuring it would be rude to leave unannounced, her fingers twiddled as she waited for grey to wake up.
