Short but scary. My first one-page horror attempt. Please rate!!!
The house lies at the end of a road. A road that looks much like any other, except for that house.
The house has lain abandoned for years, no-one can every remember anyone living there. It's once-white paint has chipped and cracked in several places, some of the upstairs windows are broken and the chimney is gradually crumbling away.
But the thing that most people notice about the house, and the thing that makes them cross the road to avoid it, is the ivy. Huge snake-like tendrils of eeirily bright green foliage. And it's everywhere. It twists up the steps to the front porch, it throws it's choking embrace around the trellis on the wall, it covers the windows with it's thick green veil. It's even covered the stone of the garden path.
Only the door remains untouched by the ivy's advances. A small, nondescript, darkwood door with a rusted brass knocker and four small windows.
You look at the house, intruiged. You have heard rumours that it's haunted, but you don't believe them. You're curious, you want to see what really lies within that old house. Your friends are too scared to go near it, but you aren't. You're brave. Or just very stupid.
Cautiously, you push open the garden gate and wind your way through the tall grass that has grown up on either side of the ivy-clogged path. Nettles have reared to monster heights amid the dead brown bracken that was once someone's lawn. You shivver, not because it's cold, but because it's eerie.
Eventually you reach the door and stand there, hesitant. Should you really be here? Something doesn't feel right. And, as much as you hate to admit it, you're starting to get scared. But, after taking a deep breath and swallowing your fear, you push open the door and step inside the empty house.
Suddenly a scream echoes through the quiet afternoon air, a terrible, ear-splitting, shriek, full of panic and blind terror.
Then, just as suddenly as it starts, the screaming stops, and all is silent again.
Except something has changed in the old house.
The paint is still cracked, the lawn still grown wild, the chimney still crumbling. The ivy still clings to every available surface and the little darkwood door still lies there, as nondescript as ever.
But there are no longer four windows inlaid into the wood.
There are five.