Wh- at the fuc (draft pleas dont bully me i like writing sometimes)

Heheh and now funky time

A loud horn sounded in the distance, a low, rumbling, sinister sound. And it jarred me out of my sleep, a cold sweat covered my body as I sat up. It took me a moment to calm down, and eventually my heart rate began leveling out. I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples.
What was that?
What kind of dream was that?
I couldn't even remember it anymore, just that last, low, bellow of a war horn that stuck with me.
I looked towards the door leading into the hallway, and then glanced at my watch that I left on the bedside table.
Three in the morning, great.
Better go back to sleep before my bag in the far corner starts to look like a demon.
I lower my head against the pillow and close my eyes, slipping back into a state of semi-sleep.
Until it sounded again, louder this time.
I sat up, and hopped out of my bed, I walked over to the window and pushed it open to look outside, I had a view of the lake, it glimmered dully in the moon's weak light, which was shrouded by clouds.
I scanned the shore, hills, and tree-line.
Nothing.
The closest property was across the other side of the lake, too far to be seen clearly, much less hear.
It scared me, and I had to tell someone.
I crept out of my room, and pushed open Layla and Tony's bedroom door, both were sound asleep.
Didn't they hear it?
I hurried to Layla's bed, and shook her shoulder.
"Hey-! Layla, get up," I whispered.
"Whaaaat..." She groaned while opening her eyes, swinging an arm out and narrowly missing my face.
"Did you hear that loud noise?" I asked.
"The only loud thing here is you! Now leave me alone, I'm sleeping," she snapped, and turned her back to me, sighing back to sleep.
The horn sounded, and now that I was fully awake, I knew it was real.
Layla didn't hear that, Tony didn't hear that. Not even dad, who was the lightest sleeper of us all.
But I did.
Was I going insane?
Was whatever birth defect I have finally catching up with my mentality?
I didn't want to believe it, especially not after being able to see the world for once. I left the room, lost in thought, and went downstairs.
I needed to think.

The living room had an old fireplace, I crouched down and craned my neck to look up the chimney. I saw the cloudy sky, the chimney was surprisingly clean. At this point I was doing whatever I needed to do in order to ignore that sound. Each time it echoed, it would be louder, more impeding. I looked around for any wooden logs to light it. After searching for some logs, I found nothing. I remembered Mom said most of the old stuff were stowed away in the basement, so that's where I went. I slid the carpet to the side, and found the latch. I pulled it up and the trapdoor made way to a staircase and a yawning dark basement.
Was I always this scared of the dark?
I held my phone's flashlight up and to my relief, the stairs were shorter than I thought, less distance to run if a monster decided to chase me. I crept down the stairs, each step creaking and giving a puff of dust and dirt under my weight. The air was so stagnant and thick, I fought the urge to sneeze.
    Once I arrived at the bottom, I looked around, the light of my phone casting over the room.
Boxes, lots of cardboard boxes filled with binders, books, files; no doubt my mom's old bird papers. I looked to the other side of the room and a stack of wood stood in the far corner. I set my phone down on one of the boxes and angled it so the light illuminated the stack of wood. I lifted a few logs and set them aside. As I was reaching for more I froze, there was something gleaming in the dark crevices in the stack.
What?
I moved more logs and sure enough, there was a lock of sorts, the few spots where it maintained the metallic shine were visible. And upon further inspection, the lock was part of some box, or chest. Wooden and sturdy, probably reinforced by a metal inside.
Why would there be a hidden chest?
My mind suddenly fills with a flurry of questions. More of mom's paperwork? No, why would she hide it then? Some kind of illegal items? Maybe, but my mom is way too conservative for that. Then again, I didn't know what she was like back then. Some kind of treasure? Valuables stowed away for emergency?
I had to find out.
After sliding the chest away from the wall, I circled it, surveying all of its sides for a crack or break. It was roughly two-by-two feet, dark, and very aged. This has no doubtably been around for a lengthy amount of time. I sat down and shone a light on the lock, it needed some sort of key. I nearly sighed in defeat, when an idea came to mind, what if I tried to pick the lock?
It was old, and probably not as secure as it used to be, so maybe I had a chance. I fumbled in my sweater pockets and pulled out a small screwdriver I had been using to fix up some of the outlets that had fallen off their places. The lock itself was large, and almost comically so. I stuck the screwdriver in and wriggled it around, after a few minutes of struggling and huffs of impatience, it gave. The lock became loose enough to open. I exhaled and hauled the chest open, it seemed to shriek in protest, filling the silence of the basement with its jarring sound. I flinched a little, then scrambled for my phone and shone the light inside.
It wasn't quite what I expected, really.
Inside of the mystery box was no secret treasure, but a bunch of books?
Sketchbooks, by the looks of them, bound and yellowed from age. I picked one up, and opened it, a few pressed flowers slipped out, but I caught them carefully. The pages were filled with portraits, ranging from blocky shapes to detailed renditions. Each drawn with such delicate strokes that not even my mom could achieve. And the weird part is, they were all of, well, mom. Back when she was younger obviously, it was no doubt her, the dimples, the way her eyebrows arch when she was pensive. It's all there. Further among the sketchbooks, there were some pieces of jewelry, some kind of rustic beads and leathers, feathers and hides, they looked well crafted. Especially a necklace carefully laid out on a book. I carefully picked it up and inspected it. The beads were more detailed and clean, as if the hands who made them worked painstakingly long to perfect them. Their colour was surprisingly vibrant, earthy tones and in every shade of a brilliant sunset.
What where these from?
Why would these be hidde-
    "Theo?" A voice called down the stairs.
"-Mom?" I sputtered out in surprise, a few moments later my mom had arrived, looking tired and confused. Until her eyes landed on the necklace in my hand, the chest behind me, and my very taken-aback expression.
"What were you snooping around for? Go back to bed," she chided, glaring at me.
"What? I just found these really neat sketchbooks and jewelry," I protested, she had to know something about them.
"They're just some of my old things, drop the subject,"
Mom kept her expectant 'do-what-I-say-now' gaze on me. I wouldn't back down, so I added on.
"All these drawings were of you, who drew them?" I flip through one of the books, and showed them to her. Mom's gaze wavered for a moment, and she gave a small sigh.
"Come upstairs, we can talk there," she muttered, turned around, and left.
It seemed I was finally going to get some answers.