Edward Smith's Monologue

Edward Smith, age 65, a man confined is an asylum for 10 years. A man perceived ludicrous and insane. A man unwelcomed and shunned by his own family. Yet, his bone trembling account of a dark, enigmatic house, has possibly fabricated an obituary for innumerable, missing, hapless children! However, often is the price of curiosity fatal….

You have been warned!

Dusk was creeping away in the horizon leaving a fresh wound smeared across the face of the sky. Decayed marshes emanated a sour scent; forming a revolting tempest in my nostrils that cascaded like shattered glass through my windpipe. A foreboding aurora dissipated every ounce of bravery in my heart and displaced it with an unprecedented trepidation. Countless sallow faces of the villagers
An abundance of overgrown grass stood stifling the coarse, archaic, interlocking cobblestone; so severely withered and disconsolate, that they ruptured against my footsteps. Little did I know I was treading a pathway to a profound cold hell? A hell infested with dark desires, leaping like hungry fingers, seeking something to devour. A hell said to be an abode of a translucent, vindictive being (that I was yet to meet). Amidst the ubiquity of malicious ivy slithering across the face of the house, sprouted a miniature door, contrived in a fashion approved by Satan himself (and director of the Ghostbusters). It seemed like I was wandering into a different dimension. My senses were becoming acquainted to new feelings: guttural whispers, excruciating odour, ponderous glass-like air and the cemented, pungent, taste of death!

As I opened the door candlelight rose to greet me but who lit them? I was informed that the secluded house I was purchasing has been unoccupied forever. Yet ornamented sconces were lit around the foyer, cobwebs inextricably constraining the candles to the wall, like an officer binding forlorn, powerless criminal. Myriads of decomposed, dreary and wilted leaves vandalized the floor; their mahogany hue accentuated the bleakness of ground. The leaves were like infinite specks; symbols of life dying upon ground that’s already
Numerous tasteless portraits pinned the paisley wall, their deadpan figures glared at me, waiting, patiently waiting. Shockingly, the smell of newly lacquered wood filled the foyer, as if the abandoned house was still attended to, perhaps by the wind (or by something else).

Suddenly, a cloying voice of a child audibly whispers.

“Finally…” “Have you come to playing?”

Then it began. Lullabies the reverberated across the house, with intermittent, ear splitting emphasized high notes that suggested the voice was miserably sobbing. Seconds later a door creaked open. My nose contorted at the smell of my own fear. My lungs became a still sea, without a hint of a breeze. My mouth morphed into a dry, barren dessert. My heart began drenching my blooding with adrenaline. Yet, I took further irrevocable steps towards the door, as if an omnipotent force controlled my body like a puppet.

Ferociously greeting me was quaint doll, adorned with a Victorian gown, sitting across a table of what seemed to be a small playroom. Her unfathomable pupils riveted on my eyes. Her blues irises were oceans of despair; however, an oblique smile was forced upon her visage.

With a ruthless giggles the familiar voice resonated across the