prologue
Start writing here…The house next door never felt right. Something about it was always off. Maybe it was because I never saw anyone there- no one came and no one left- it was always abandoned.
Maybe it was just because of the scary stories my friends would tell me.
“It’s the house that kills.” they would say. “Everyone whoever dared live there would die.”
My mom told me to ignore them, said they were nothing but scary stories. But don’t most stories have even just a tiny seed of truth? I never saw anyone even look at the house.
No one ever moved in, at least not while I lived next door. Why not? The house looked normal enough, nothing a new paint job couldn’t fix. But I think even the grown ups knew something happened there.
Something no one wanted to talk about. Something bad. Though the grown ups waved off all the stories about the house, I can’t think of a single one who didn’t ban their kids from stepping foot in the front yard. The house became a local legend long before I was born. Everyone had a slightly different story about the house. some say that the last person to live there was witch who stole and killed any child that got to close. Others say nothing but a ghost has set foot through the front door in years, the ghost of a old man who lost his daughter in an accident.
Those people claim that he went mad with grief, so much so that even in death he searches for the perfect child to replace the one he lost. Nothing but scary stories. There were some kids that said it was all bullshit, nothing but creepy bedtimes stories parents told their kids to keep them away from a decrepit old house that was bound to fall apart any day. But even they refused to go near the house. No amount of candy, money, or teasing could get even the bravest of kids to even step on the grass. So what actually happened in the house next door? What was it that no one talked about yet was so scary that they all stayed away?
