Danger, Death, and Despair [DO NOT STEAL]

Danger, Death, and Despair

By Amy H.






The sun was at its peak in the sky over my head, but it's brilliant
light felt out of place above the antique three story mansion.
Gorgeous, neglected stone and
brick covered my new home. It was ancient, like its occupants, my new
parents, and could be placed in a turn of the century novel. I looked
out the window at the tremendous structure, wondering how old it
really was. I got out of the car and chilling breeze tingled my
spine. Butterflies fluttered nervously in my stomach. Whether this
feeling was for the better or worse, I couldn't know.



The feeling of welcome I thought would radiate from every inch of
the place was absent. I stepped into the large living room, and
everything seemed normal. The first thing I noticed was the large
oil painting of a man over the mantle of a large, inviting fireplace.
The gold plate on the frame said the man's name was Richard Roscoe,
the original owner of Roscoe Manor. I gazed at his picture for a
very short time. Mr. Roscoe had menacing black irises and and looked
an evil man.


Everything went well for the first year and a half. I had a loving
family for the very first time, and was just starting to warm up to
my new home. Surrounding me were two people who loved me and took
care of me every day. Mr. and Mrs. Payte were the very souls who
saved me from the sorrow I had known. They gave me everything, if
not more, than I could ever need, and for the first time, I was
happy.


Then things started to get a little crazy at Roscoe Manor. My mind
was playing tricks on me. I saw an apparition at the opposite end of
the long hallway. The figure of a man, dressed like that of a
wealthy Englishman during the eighteenth century, though he was
grotesque, and his clothes were tattered. The man
stood erect and motionless. His countenance was terrifying. His
painful stare bore into me and I froze. In the distance, I could hear
my mother's advancing footsteps, and apparently it could too. The
thing ran away. I watched it disappear silently through the second
story window at the end of the hall. The hideous monster didn't
appear again until a few months passed.


My sleep was haunted by the unsightly visage of my visitor. He
appeared in my nightmares continually, and I often went without sleep
or slept restlessly. The wretched thing was constantly polluting my
thoughts.


During the days when Mr. And Mrs.
Payte were out or at work I was left alone to suffer. Incessant
moaning filled the manor almost every night. I was terrified of ever
encountering that thing again. A single thought of his repulsive
figure gave me the chills.


I tried to tell my parents of these horrific events, and they
thought I was going mad. They knew something was the matter, though,
because perpetual stress and anxiousness radiated from me.


The next morning around three, I heard an ear piercing scream. It
made me jump higher than I ever thought I could, and like lightning,
I ran down the stairs and into the kitchen. My heart raced, and
despair hit me like a brick wall. My mother's body was on the floor;
her head in the sink.


I was panicked. I didn't know what to do next. I couldn't bear to
see my mother like this. Then, I heard slow, uneven dragging
footsteps. Shh-k. Shh-k. They were accompanied by the same horrible
moaning from the other night. Instinctively, my feet carried me down
another level into the dungeon to get away from the terrible thing.
I stopped dead in my tracks when I saw who was waiting for me.



Stupid, I thought, how could I be so stupid? He was there, across
the room with that evil smile of his. Those dangerous, black eyes
full of anger and revenge were staring at me. I knew this face, but
where had I seen it before?



I began racking my brain of every name and face I had ever seen.
Then it hit me. The very first thing I saw when I walked into my new
home was a huge oil painting of Richard Roscoe that hung above the
fireplace. This was him, I was sure of it, but he was dead. He died
in 1915. He had come back from the dead, and he had my dad.


The face of my poor father was struck with fear. His hands and feet
were tied together, and his mouth was taped, so he couldn't scream in
terror. Trembling, I knew I couldn't just stand there. I had to do
something. Saving my father was my first priority, but self
preservation was a close second.


Richard Roscoe let out a terrifying snarl. I stumbled back a few
steps, a knee-jerk reaction, and he started to advance. This was not
how I had planned to die. I didn't want to be trapped like an animal
in its cage, helpless, and waiting for death to set it free.


I diverted my thoughts back to my escape plan, if I was too late to
save my mother, I had to save my dad. I at least had to try. I
needed to do something, and fast. What could I do? Of course! I was
in a dungeon. There were torturous weapons everywhere, but most of
them were too heavy for me to lift, let alone destroy a zombie with.
Luckily, a simple crowbar hung on the wall behind me. I gripped it
tightly and cracked Mr. Roscoe over the head with it. He went
tumbling to the ground, but I knew that wasn't the end of him.


I sprinted to my father and freed him. In the process, I was
screaming at him to get out as fast as he could. He told me to go
and leave him behind, but I insisted that he leave. My father left
unwillingly.



A breath of chilling air brushed the hairs of my neck and made me
shiver. I whipped my head around and he was there, dangerously close.
I tried to fight him off, but he took hold of my neck. My vision
became blurred, and my limbs hung lifeless at my sides. The sound of
tires screeching on the pavement gave me the tiniest bit of relief.
I thought my father had gotten away safely. The sound of metal
crunching and glass shattering followed, and my relief vanished
completely. I had no hope, none for my father, and none for myself.
Despair washed over me. That was the last thing I remembered as I
drifted away into the dark world of the non-living.

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