Room 93 (FIRST DRAFT)

Present

The ground outside Elizabeth's house was muddy and wet. The rain had been really heavy during our visit to the graves. The rain clouds had returned though and water is tipping down onto my head so heavily I might as well be in the shower.

I follow Elizabeth through the front door and take my shoes off on the WELCOME mat that is the most unwelcoming thing about the house. I check my watch once again as we approach the kitchen, diary on hand. It's 3:56 am. It's been just over twelve hours since I arrived at Elizabeth's house and I can already tell she isn't remotely close to finishing the story. She brews the kettle and sits opposite me. Her silence chills me as she evidently remembers Alexia's passing. I don't know what is more unnerving about her experience: that only two people make it out alive, the way the kids die or that this woman before me - who at age seven lived through this all - wasn't as freaked out as I am and I wasn't even properly there.

'So, Mr. Newman, how are you finding the story so far?' She smirks as if she already knows how I am finding it.
'It's unsettling and a bit odd,' I remark, hiding my curiosity behind the criss cross cross hatching of my words. I don't want to give to much away, but I don't want to lie to her.
'I see.' She quietly giggles. I don't understand what is so humorous but it seem to have her cracked up.

She pulls the diary onto the table and opens it onto the page with Jason's body. The page next to the hoot is almost blank except for the scrawled number 1. This means I will have to turn the page to view the next photo. The one of Alexia. I get a crawling sensation in my stomach a so think about turning the page.
'Your trying to decide whether you want to see the photo or not, aren't you?' She asks with a slither of humour in her voice. I don't want to lie to her but she doesn't need to know my fear of the book, does she?
'I want to see it...' I let my voice trail into the nearing darkness. I only notice at that second the cold seeping into my bones. I have only just noticed it but it must have been here all time, right?
'Curiosity killed the cat you know.' I shiver at the old expression. The familiar words give me new confidence as I reply,
'Good thing I'm not a cat then!' The sides of my mouth turn up in a faint smile,
'Yes Mr. Newman, but how long does it take for a journalist to become a cat? How long before a curious human to become a vicious beast? How long before the truth corrupts?' The thought of becoming a beast urges the chill up my spine until it dances on my back and strokes my neck.

A loud crack sounds around us and I nearly jump out of my skin. The darkness engulfs us and I cling to the edge of the table, not daring to let go for fear of my life. I take in my surroundings and process the sequence of events. The fuse must have blown, which would be the source of loud crack.
'Have you been using any high amperage electrical items recently?' I whisper. The only reason I remember that a fuse can blow is if you have a electronic device that uses a higher amperage than your circuit, so that must be what happened? I realise I am questioning myself and attempt to stop that line of thoughts.
'No. I haven't had any of my plug sockets on and the only electrical item that's on it the light, and that is definitely correct,' she whispers, but sounds confident. The confidence in her voice only lowers my confidence.
'Okay. So why did the fuse blow?' Our breaths hang suspended even after I have finished whispering. Elizabeth doesn't reply.
'Why are we whispering?' She whispers after nearly a minute of our awkward and terrified silence.
'Because that fuse didn't break on its own.' I find my self saying the words before I even set out to say them.

I curse myself for breaking the eerie tension as I hear creaking behind me. I am about to turn round to inspect the source of the noise when a giggling erupts from the place where the creaking came from. I freeze in my position and refuse to move any further. I can partially see Elizabeth's face in the gloom and it reflects a look of sheer terror. I leap up from my seat and see a small girl standing before me.

She is holding a small dog toy with a lopsided ear. Her light brown hair is short and curly and she is wearing a sterile hospital gown. Her soft blue eyes are huge and shining with innocence. I would normally try to help her, except for the thick blood soaking her hair and dying it a nasty shade of brown. She looks like someone that should be in a hospital but the rashes on her wrists suggest otherwise. This little, five year old girl was once chained to something with heavy duty chains, rather than the lighter hand cuffs you usually see. My heart aches with the need to help her but her childish giggling warns me not to. Something isn't quiet right about her, something odd.

I grasp Elizabeth wrist and pull her off the chair and out the kitchen. Her arm brushes the book off the table and onto the floor. The page falls open on the image of Alexia, she is hung from the ceiling with huge bruises staining her partially tanned skin and perfect complexion. Fresh blood trickles down her face running from her mouth just like Elizabeth described. It isn't the sight of her that makes me catch my breath though. It is the person beside Alexia in the picture. Even in the darkness of the room a perfectly white figure of a little girl surrounded by a ripple of blue can be seen. I can easily pick her face out as one I recognise. The girl in the picture is the little giggling girl who is standing in Elizabeth's kitchen. There is one problem though, like Alexia and Jason, the giggling girl is dead.