The Dead Outcast

This is a story written with two authors, myself and YulmaSnowfall. Let's see where it goes, shall we?

The fog was thick, muffling sound and sight. Where it parted, Will Autenberry could see the street rising ahead of him, slick and wet and black with rain, and he could hear the voices of the dead.

He cupped his hands over his ears and hummed to himself. This could usually block out the moaning and shrieking of the deceased. Will watched the ground underneath him as he walked, trying not to look up for fear he might see someone in a gruesome pose. When people die unexpectedly or before their time, an imprint of their souls is left on the Earth. They are trapped in the clothes and expressions that they died in. Once, when Will was younger, he'd been playing in the park with a young boy in old-fashioned clothes. Only later did he realize that the boy had been dead and that the surprised look on his face was a sign of that.

Will's foot splashed in a puddle, covering his sneaker with mud. It was dark out and the streetlamps gave off their sickly white light. This part of town had always freaked Will out. There were also way too many dead people around.

Will looked up quickly, trying to figure out how much farther he needed to go. According to the numbers on the doors of the houses, he had only a block or so more.

He walked on for a few more  minutes and then looked up again. 1625, 1627, 1629. He turned and headed up the stairs to a sad looked square of cement with a door and a window. He knocked on the door. No one answered. He rang the doorbell but he didn't hear a noise. Maybe no one was home. Then Will heard a lock click and saw the knob turn. The door opened slowly and Will walked inside the house.

The End

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