Brenton walked home from school alone, as he always did. People never walked with him; in fact, people went a block out of the way to avoid him. He didn’t know why this was, he never understood it. People had done it to him his whole life. But it didn’t bother him.
Nothing did these days. He heard sirens wailing in the distance; more signs of the gruesome city he lived in. He kicked a little stone down the sidewalk of a deserted street, and it jump-skipped it’s way onto the top step of a porch. He looked up and smiled as he saw the house he walked past: a desolate, deserted house with no door. Through the open doorframe he saw a long corridor with a door at the far end of it. Brenton turned and continued walking. He knew the rules of living in this neighborhood; the first rule was to never go through that doorframe. Very few people did. There were rumors about that place; some said it was haunted, others said it was plagued, some still said that an animal was loose in the twisted corridors of the upstairs. The truth didn’t matter, as long as no one went inside. Brenton thought about the time that an investigative reporter went through there; the next day a kid found his skin in the alley next to the house, laying there like a rubber glove. From that time on no one dared to approach the house, or even to step on the porch. Brenton’s mind turned to think about the carving he would do when he got home as he walked down the dusty street.
Brenton got home to a blinding sight of lights and sirens. Several fire trucks were outside his house, and two police cars to direct traffic around the house, which was entirely engulfed in flames. Brenton’s heart dropped in fear when he saw the fire. As he rushed over to the fire truck, he heard a loud explosion and saw the very top of the house burst into excess smoke and flames as pieces of the roof came falling down on the firemen. Brenton knew the gunroom in the attic was gone now. He shouted to the fire chief that he lived here, and the fire chief sadly informed him that he was the only alive who lived there anymore. Brenton didn’t respond to this; it wasn’t real. He looked around; the fire should have been blazing orange and black smoke, the sirens deafening and the crowds oogling at the comotion. But the fire was dim yellow, the smoke was a dusty brown color, and people went along their business without a care. Even the sounds of the sirens were dulled for some reason. He thought about this, and realized this was real, this was life. Boring, even in shock and pain. He had lost everything and was bored with it. He thought about it all, and his face never changed. He knew he was about to die, this bordom with life couldn’t possibly last for long. he decided to do what he always wanted to; break the rules, enter the house.
The six block walk back to the house was just as boring to him as the rest of reality was. When he finally came up the steps, his stomach began to quiver with excitement. Finally, he thought, some sense of emotion and feeling. The more he walked toward the house, the more nervous and afraid he became: he loved it. He reached the doorframe of the house and finally stepped inside; he had entered a one way path. The floor boards creeked as he walked down the dry, dusty hall. The wallpaper was falling off the sides of the hall and the scribblings on the portions that still hung made it clear that someone was here. About halfway down the hall, he noticed a change in the markings, from scribbles to symbols. One he recognized as night hunter; the other, hangman. He didn’t understand some of them; one looked like a snake with a beak, and hand the words “Gul De Sien” underneath. His heart started to beat faster as he saw the symbols become sequencial and formed stories of hangings and tortures. He enjoyed this surge of fear; an change from his usual apathy. He stopped once and put a hand to a place where the ink was still wet on the wall. He brought his hand back and took a quick taste; his whole body tightened in fear as he tasted the blood. He kept walking, unsure of what he hoped to find or meet.
After what seemed like an eternity, he reached the end of the hall, where a door stood. The door was painted with this same blood, dried to a drip at the bottom. Brenton began to feel dizzy from the emotional strain on his body; he’d never felt emotion like this before, and it was good to him. He reached for the doorhandle; it was a skull at the top with two teeth curving down for the handle. He opened the door, stepped in, and shut it without looking ahead. He wanted to be unable to run back. As he lifted his eyes to what was in the room, he instantly felt the bile rising up in him and he puked on the floor. The room was drapped with thin airy lace dyed in the same red as the hall. The walls looked like a slaughter house, with blood splattered everywhere. In the center of the room, he saw a stone table with four people sitting around it. They were all cloaked in black, and their hoods were up as well. one of them turned to look at him, and the other three began to get up and walk towards him. The fourth one picked up a silver knife sitting on the table and walk towards him also. Suddenly, Brenton realized he shouldn’t have shut the door.