Ghost Stories
I step onto the cool marble floor. Another sleepless night. Another unproductive day ahead. I stretch, the room still blurry from my lack of glasses.
I take long, quiet strides across the room and sit at the pine wood desk. I had gotten it for Christmas a few years ago and forgot to paint it. The warm dark tone of the wood a stark contrast to the the cool light colours of the bedroom, hell, the entire home.
I can't do anything about the colour pallet as unwelcoming as it is. The place even smells cold. Like the Canadian winter through up all over it, sucking out all of the warmth.
I stare into my mirror, my blue black hair tumbling down my pristine white shoulders, stalk straight and stubborn. My nearly white irises that seemed empty to, not only me, but those around me as well. In a way I'm like another useless decoration in the home collecting dust. My bone structure sharp like broken glass and my lips nearly colourless. I scare people just by looking at them.
I make my way downstairs, fully clothed and tired beyond comparison. The old stairs to the attic creak under my minuscule weight. The house is still dark, like always. Shadows seem to shift constantly. Things move. All of that ghost story shit happens her. And it's alway dark. Dark and heavy.
The people near the area gossip about this place with me. Of course they don't know I live here, or rather, stay here. No one dares. The stories float around town, always looming.
"Don't go into the Millbury house. It's haunted" a person would say and someone would reply "Oh? I heard it was the home of monsters". Of course they're both wrong. I would know since I've been staying here for what? Three years? Yes. About that long.
I pull together a small, sad, breakfast. If you can even call it that. Just some stale bread and some stolen eggs. I don't have the luxury of something like bacon.
It's cold outside. Colder then usual. The snow is piled high. I hope I have enough food to last me a few days. I'm going to have to dig a way out.
The wind is whistling through the house. The boards barely holding it together. One of the crystal chandeliers fell from the roof last week proving how weak this once grand home has become.
I walk to the small library and skim through the records kept by past owners. I've been keeping my own. They all talk of strange happenings and how they gradually start getting worse then they stop writing like they fell off the face of the earth. Some even forgot to date them as frustrating as that is. My hand lands on my favourite of the records.
The last book. It's very clearly hand bound and very old, like it hand been through centuries. The blue leather cover made it seem particularly unusual since nothing I can think of has blue skin and leather is nearly impossible to dye such a brilliant ocean blue. It's soft and worn, just like how old leather gets. One page is marked with a striking red satin book mark. Why satin you ask? I just grabbed it. I was confused too, but any book worm knows that almost anything will work.
I flip to the page. The last entry of the last book. It hastily written in the mans normally neat handwriting. The page is undated and it details the events of a truly terrifying night. No one but me knows about it which makes it fun. I like to give people hints and create rumours about the going ons of this house. It's also hilarious to freak out the local teens of my school. No one has ever listened to one of my ghost stories and wasn't scared out of their wits. What can I say, it must be the Scottish in me or something.
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I'm really excited to just be writing what I wanna write and not what I feel pressured to write. I don't know why I felt pressured so don't ask please. Anyway I hope this intrigued you. If not then cool, thanks for putting up with it till this point. Let me know if there are any errors. It's greatly appreciated. Thank you again.
-Kitty
