Short Ghost story
Crimson Whispers
‘Twas a wicked November evening, winds battered the once
proud windows. The building, my building, which once stood as a monument to
greatness, now lay in a state of disrepair. I often think back, to time spent
in the luxurious living room, sipping the finest red a pretty penny could buy.
I’d never considered myself a cynical person, but even I used to occasionally
shudder when a faint breeze would flutter the room, I’d shake it off as my
imagination. After all, no man, dead or alive, would have the audacity, nay
temerity to obtrude with my business.
I’d grown stronger as I aged, whilst creatures bellowed into
the night, and man fought with man, with the inevitable conclusions of war. I
focused on taking what was mine and doing it in plain sight. It’s what afforded
me such a lavish lifestyle. The youngest, most nubile girls, mine to use, and
then taste, their would-be entanglements- mine to slaughter for fun. The
witch-white halls of Franklin mansion, oft red with the blood I had spilled,
and more the better for it.
Whatever was I thinking to stop and rest was not for a
creature such as me. No, resting was a fool's errand. For centuries I terrorised Scarman village,
and every one of them thanked me for it. You’re next. I bang on the glass
unheard. “We’ll take it” Brett said to the letting agent, “It feels creepy”
said Stevie laughing, as she stared at the mirror. “Was that a..?”
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