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avatar An Intelligent Moron
Level 58 : Grandmaster Magical Boy

i had to write a short story for school without any editing so here, have a trash thing


You look around you, unsure if whether or not this is a good idea. The building in front of you looks like it was built before the seventeenth century, with its dark, battered and bruised wooden walls and its windows - or lack thereof - that had been blocked off with newer, slightly less rotten planks.

You step inside, immediately hit with the sound of creaking boards and the smell of the musty attic. A cold breeze sweeps by your face, gently lifting your hair like a child had played with it.

Speaking of children, you hear the the sounds of laughter echoing through the gloomy hallway. You blink, trying to get your eyes used to the darkness to see if there were kids playing a prank on you to get you to believe in the paranormal.

You shake your head, and hear mumbling. The joyous sounds of disembodied laughter fade away, as if someone -something- had scared them away. You wish for the giggles as the moaning grew louder. The wind picks up, and the door slams behind you. You jump around, crashing your fists on the door and jangling the knob, shrieking for someone to help. That’s when you feel the cold, damp hand on your shoulder. You freeze. Your limbs had turned to jello, shaking underneath you.

You slowly turn to face it, and you’re met by a cold blast of wind in the face, shoving you back against the door. You duck, falling to your knees and begging for whatever holy deity is watching over you to save you.

Either you didn’t believe hard enough, you weren’t worthy of saving, or there’s nothing up there, because you see him, standing at the top of the stairs.

He wore a monochromatic tuxedo and top hat that were distinctly from the early twentieth century.

You feel tears bubble up in your eyes as he steps - floats - closer to you, holding his hand out and beckoning you to come closer. You refuse, pushing your back against the door, begging for him to stay back, you have a Swiss Army knife and you’re not afraid to use it.

He doesn’t hear you.

He’s closer now.

The door’s old wood feels gritty underneath your fingertips. You reach for the doorknob. It’s locked.

You hear a cold, dead voice croaking in your ear. “You belong to me.”

Hundreds of opaque shapes pop up, all ranging from black to white. They step forward, holding out their freezing hands. Deafening giggles fill the room.

It’s all black now.


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