-1The doorknob had no particular coldness or heat to it, it felt more as if no on had ever used it before and while I knew that was not true, I could not help but look around the rows of houses down the street to make sure this was mine. No, this one was mine alright. The slightly slanted mailbox on the door was still dangling on the edge of the nails that was keeping it against the wall. I would fix that eventually, or so I promised like every other day before continued onwards inside the house, forgetting all about my previous promise. Well, whatever, I will eventually get to it. I quickly adjusted my baseball cap, always favoring wearing it backwards instead the proper frontward way. Oh yeah, in case I didn't tell you, people tell me off because of my weird fashion statement. I pretty much wear what I am wearing today about everyday. A long black coat, leather tip-less gloves, gym shoes, and my favorite baseball cap with the Flintstones on it. Yeah, yeah. So what? Listen considering most of my family is in an asylum, dead, or serial killers, I believe I am the most normal person in the bunch of crazies. So what if I have a weird fashion statement. At least I am not jumping off of padded walls, or killing people nationwide. So, let's leave it at that, shall we?

I slowly opened the door of my house and strolled in without too much trouble. Glancing around the room, I could not help but check the room to make sure it looked the same as every other day. The same ugly couches that looked as if someone vomited profusely different dark colors on it in attempt to make some sort of art, plain white walls with pieces of hanging art which one on the left was a painting of flowers while the other on the right what a painting of a panther laying leisurely in a tree. At the sight of the painting with the feline, I couldn't help but glare. I'd had too many experience with that damn hell cat. Another story, for another day. I returned to my examining of the room, my hands shoved deep into the depths of my leather jacket. The fire place and the area around was still smudged with ashes from past fires and the one table that could use a good fixing. As you may have guessed, I had promised to fix that also several times but I had an excuse for that, at least. I doubt David would like if I changed anything inside of his house. Who is David, you ask?

His my big brother, or, was my big brother. He died a year ago. Inside this very house. Instead of died, I should say, he was murdered. To sum up the situation, my big brother was drowned in the bath upstairs by my younger brother and since then, lets just say, big bro never wanted to leave. Details, details. Yeah, lets move on. I finally glanced down to the major thing that I had to pass in the living room every day. The large puddle that was forming on the floor from a constant dribble from the upstairs bathroom. Now, I know what you're thinking, better get that leak fixed, right? Yeah, well, lets just say it isn't any leak causing that. At most, I would call it friendly ghost activity. David does this every day and there is no way in hell I am going into the bathroom after what happened and knowing full well what can happen if David the friendly ghost got angry. So, you mind as well forget that idea.

I had become so accustomed to the puddle that never seemed to grow any larger then the one foot width, that the sight of the puddle getting smaller as drops of the water reversed and arose upwards to the dark spot on the ceiling to begin its cycle once again, did not shock me. I believe I would have been more disturbed had the puddle gotten larger or stopped existing all together, I had often wandered if David was reconstructing his death on his own or if he was trapped in some torturous loop that he had to relive or rather re-die. Is that a word? I am not sure. Either way I soon realized that it is true that humans can adapt to anything. This is what I was thinking about as I walked past the one foot puddle and began towards the hallway so I may get the bag of sports equipment that I had left in my room. The house always gave off this impression of death. Not that creeping feeling with floor boards that creak and random shrieks in the night. No by death, I mean the stale air that seemed recycled, and though the windows were opened, the wind stayed in a dead halt. I have noticed that houses often have some kind of smell to them but not my house. It had no scent. If it even stank, I would have been happy. The floors never creaked, and the light within the room no matter what time of day, stayed the same. This was how haunted houses really looked like, or, at least, usually. Varies from where you go, I guess.

I suddenly stopped on my way towards my room, standing in the center of the hallway where two doors on the left two to other rooms. Was the reason I stopped because I wanted to look at the creepy family photos against the wall? No. A definite no. Besides family photos always look creepier then just some regular painting. No, I stopped because I am sure I heard a click. After visiting a house that never makes not even one little sound, you usually should get nervous if you suddenly do hear mysterious things. I rolled my shoulders, trying to rid myself of my nervousness. If I got nervous I wouldn't be able to run properly. I'll end up tripping like those chicks in the scary movies. I perked up my ears again, trying to catch the sound once again. And I did.


Like a tapping from a typewriter, at the sudden realization, I quickly ran towards the door on the far right and pressed my hands against it. This room was my brother's room. Before he had died he had been a pretty famous writer, and had been working on his greatest book yet. Until, of course, he was killed and he never managed to complete it. That is reason enough to for him to stay in this house. He had unfinished business. He wanted to complete his book. But that was near impossible for him. No matter how many times he tries, he never can. I believe that he has forgotten how to do several things. And one of them is putting paper in the type writer. So no matter how much he typed, it would do no good.

Click, Click, Click.

I was sure I heard it that time. I began to bang against the door suddenly, strands of my black hair flying in my eyes and causing me to blink in pain.

"David! That's you, right?!" I yelled, knowing full well he wouldn't answer me. David never liked talking to me. Makes me feel neglected, you know? A long time ago, I decided that if I were to save my brother, I would have to do it myself without the help of some medium or whatever. I continued my banging against the door and as I did, the clicking on the typewriter in the room got faster and louder until it reached a very inhuman level of speed.

"David, le-"

I think I saw stars in front of my eyes, as I flew backwards and against the wall as the door flung open and an unknown, chilled wind threw me back. I slid down it and landed against the wooden floor beneath me, blinking away the stars and groaning from the fuzzy pain in my head. Without time to gather myself, the wind thrust forward again, pinning me against the wall with the amount of pressure which I couldn't help letting out a scream. Hey, if you were in my position, you would too. The papers that had never been removed from the room immediately shot forward and slapped me against my face. I swear if I die from paper cuts. But it soon ended and because of the flurry of papers and wind that had my eyes watering, I was unable to see what had been in the room.

But I obviously knew it had been David. Damn him. And as if to signify that he was annoyed with me, he slapped the door right back in my face, once again locked out. Well...that was a failure.