The House on Ambrose Street

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Chapter 23- The Truth

If I told you the truth, would you believe me? Or would you lock me up forever? Probably lock me up. I’d lock me up. But you won’t. I won’t let you. I think I’ll keep running for a while.

There was an orange sunset, and it was just dark enough around me to hide in the shadows of the brick walls. But the headlights were still following me—I just knew it—and I’d never outrun them when the sun went completely down. So I squeezed through the closest gate, the iron leaving flakes of rust on my stolen jacket.

The house in front of me was four stories high. It was old and abandoned and creepy-looking. The deck looked like covered bridge. It reminded me of a haunted bridge. There was mist hovering over the ground.

Lots of broken windows looked down at me. I walked up the small mound of dirt to get to the part of the deck next to the covered bridge that led to the front door. The light from the headlights flashed behind me and I jumped, running to the open door and slipping inside it. I closed the door with a shove of my hand.

The headlights from the car flared again, sending light across the rotted floorboards and empty room. I walked forward, taping my foot here and there to test the strength of the two-by-fours. The lights came back a third time and were now resting on the front of the house. I took another step forward when I heard a car door close.

I could hear the footsteps echoing across the yard. I was cornered. So I just stood there and waited.

“Wyatt? Are you in there?” a voice called through the door.

I stayed quiet.

“Wyatt, we have to take you back,” said the voice. “Please, Wyatt, come out and get in the car.”

I shook my head. I was free. I was alone and safe in this house and no one was going to take me back.

The door opened. It creaked as the old woman poked her head around the frame. “Wyatt?” she asked. Seeing me, she said, “You need your medication. Please, come back with me.”

I shook my head again. “I can’t go back there,” I told her.

“Please,” she said, “don’t make security get out of their vans. I don’t want to that to happen. We can do this the easy way. Please.”

I looked at her and smiled. “I don’t want it to be easy,” I told her.

The nurse sighed. She disappeared for a moment, letting the door close softly against its frame. I waited. I wasn’t going to go back. They wouldn’t make me. Even if the security came and tried to take me, I would fight.

I was never going back to the Bloomingdale Insane Asylum again.

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