Hi, my name is Bella. Now before I get into things. I was never scared kids, I would see the odd one doing something I thought was mindless. But never scared. Until this story I’m about to tell you…
It began when we first moved to a town in Connecticut called Stamford. Mom said the house we were going to live in was built in the 1980s. A s we pulled up to sidewalk, I stared out the window.
“Mom,” I asked. “Are you sure this is the place?”
“Yes sweetie I’m sure it is, why do you ask?” she replied turning in her seat to glance at me.
“You said this place was built a long time ago, and it looks like it was just constructed yesterday.”
“Huh, well no one has bought it since… ah never mind, but yes your right, it does look very good for being built at that time.”
Too good.
My little Sister Hazel looked over my shoulder at the house, “Mommy, this place looks so pretty, can we go in now? Can we?” she said with excitement. Mom looked thoughtfully at her and then kindly agreed. As I stepped into the house I realized that the interior was no different from the exterior. It looked pretty modern and had a little bit of a shine to it. Like as if someone cleaned the whole thing, very thoroughly, top to bottom. It’s light blue pastel colored walls made it seem inviting. But something felt out of place, as if something was wrong. Mom and Dad showed us to our rooms. After I was finished unpacking my luggage, I went to go check on Hazel.
“Hi, Hazie,” I said.
“Stop calling me that,” she replied smugly. “Are you done yet?”
“Yeah, I am,” I faintly grinned at her, “Want to go exploring?” She abruptly turned her head in interest, “Yes! Let’s go!”
There is about four levels in the house: the basement, the main floor (where the kitchen, living room, our parents room and the bathrooms are) the second floor (where me and Hazel’s rooms are, we also have a bathroom) and the attic. All the rooms looked the same in style. Except the basement and attic. The basement’s walls were rusted, the room was filled with broken furniture, random tools and some objects that Mom yelled at me for finding. She said that they were never to be touched again and on the first day of being at that house, I got banned from ever going down there again.
The attic had walls no better than the basement and it smelled of rotting… I can’t even explain it, it just smelled like something had been sitting in there for days, becoming more and more decayed as hours go by. But worse than the smell was the collection of dolls. Now I know a lot of people have a fear of dolls, but listen, I’ve never been scared of dolls I actually loved them. But these dolls didn’t have the shiny porcelain skin I was used to. Parts of the dolls’ legs, arms and even faces looked like actual flesh. The dolls were accompanied by stacks of boxes. We didn’t dare look through the boxes, for if we did the dolls would be watching us and that was a very disturbing scenario to even think about. As soon as me and Hazel got up to the attic and saw the dolls, we immediately retreated. Not telling Mom or Dad about the dolls.
That evening came quickly, unlike any other. Mom made supper and Dad went to go talk to the neighbors. Once mom was done making us food, I called Dad into the house. We ate the homemade spaghetti mom had prepared for us. After eating, we all did the dishes together.
Soon it was time for us to head to bed. Mom and Dad as usual, went to Hazel first. I know she’s 6 and I’m 12, but I exist too. While they say their “we love you” and “goodnight, cutie” I began read my book. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t even a little jealous. At last they came to say goodnight to me, it felt different now though. They didn’t seem as happy when they said it to me as they were when saying it to Hazel. Did they hate me now? What did I do wrong? A while after they left, I let tiredness drift me to sleep. As I fell into a deep slumber, I had a dream, no a nightmare. One of the most traumatizing one I’ve ever had and I was never going to wake up from it…
To be Continued…
