The House Upon The Hill
By Baker Street
There was an old dilapidated house high upon the hill of the main street of our town. It was made of timber and wood and stood three stories high. Old white paint was peeling from the wooden boards and the glass from the windows was either missing or broken leaving dark gaping holes in the structure. The roof was high and pitched and loose and broken tiles were visible to the naked eye. It was said that the house was haunted and now under the full moon in the dark and misty night one might well believe that it was so. The wind rustled the leaves in the trees and an eerie and ominous air was about the place. A dog barked somewhere in the distance of the night and then began a long and plaintive howling. A few bats fluttered by in the glow of the lamplight that I was standing under watching this haunting setting and display in the dark. I don’t believe in ghosts or boogie-men, but this night had a tinge of evil in it nonetheless. It made me shudder and sent a slight tingle of a chill down my spine. The tales of the murders that took place in this old haunted house so many years before still make out a part of the local suburban folklore. It was said that the slayings were brutal and cruel and bloody; and that the perpetrator was never found leaving behind him nothing but a mystery of horror and unsolved crime. The dog stopped howling for a moment and the silence was overwhelming and tense only to be broken again by the dog’s renewed lonesome howling. I had had enough of the spook-house effect that was racking my brain and retreated back down the street towards my lodgings. Behind me the house still stood prominently with brooding evil and dark in the black night. I would be glad to be away from it for this kind of darkness will haunt a man unto his death. And still the house stood dark as death behind me as the chilly wind caressed its way down the streets and the ally's.