Rationality

• Horror

								
The estate was apparently quite smart when it was first built in the late 1960s but it rapidly declined. A once pristine exterior now stands in an overgrown garden littered with shattered glass and rotting wood. A ‘For Sale’ sign is lying in the grass, a jagged poll stands as evidence of its origin. No one’s willing to buy this place. Yellowed paint peeling off of the building while wooden boards hide broken windows. Leading to the entrance was water damaged stairs, splintered and hazardous, I’m careful to watch my footing as I climb the mangled steps. The front door held thin indents, like it had been used as a cat scratcher. I flip through a ring full of keys, looking for the right one to open the rusted lock. 

Pushing open the door I’m hit with the stale scent of damp and a cold breeze. It’s dark in the hallway, I flick the light switch, there’s a spark of light then nothing. Great. I pull out a torch from my bag, allowing a beam of light to illuminate the narrow space. The floor was a dark red carpet, while lining the wall was wallpaper that had a pattern of four circles with three circles inside them, of which are various shades of orange, looking as if there trying to meet in the middle. On the left side of the passage was a small table with a vase of long dead flowers, a deep blue rotary dial phone and a phone book. On the right was an ottoman covered in a burnt orange fabric. A little further down there are five doors, four across from each other in pairs, and one near the end of the hall on the left. Oddly, a tall mirror stood at the very end of the hall, the image slightly distorted. Probably the lighting.

I choose the door closest to me on the left to enter, the hinges creaked and groaned. Scanning the room I don’t spot anything interesting. The same deep red carpet and patterned wallpaper encased the medium sized room, housing a floral sofa and armchair with a long hardwood coffee table in the centre. A large box sat on a small table pushed to the wall, a TV, it’s small screen no longer able to play beloved shows. Everything masked in a thick layer of dust. Hanging on the wall above the TV was a framed photo of the family that once lived here. A mother, father and young girl. All dead. A shiver suddenly ran through me, I snap a picture of the dust covered room with my camera before turning hastily to leave the room.

Staying to the left I enter the next door. A blue tiled bathroom, black mould growing on the ceiling and cobwebs draped over the shower head. Taking another picture I’m about to leave but catch a shadow in the mirror. Moving side to side. Swinging. You just moved the torch wrong. I keep the torch still in my hand. Still swinging. Shaking my head I leave the bathroom. Heart beating fast. The last door on the left is separated from the bathroom by a cramped corridor. Masking the walls was many printed photos of the same two people. The father and daughter. Their eyes stare at me. A knot of dread settles in by stomach. 

I manage to jerk my head away from the lifeless eyes. No picture. I stalk uneasily toward the next door. Pushing it open I quickly glance around already taking a picture. Bright yellow cupboards wrap around two walls in the small room, allowing just enough room for a paltry table with vibrant orange chairs. Suddenly, a high-pitched hissing sounds from behind me. I swing my head to look. Frantically moving my torch, searching the hall.
 
Nothing.
 
However the sound cut off instantly. Must have been the wind. I catch sight of the mirror. The glass seemingly rippling. My hand moves before I can think. Reaching out to touch the waves. My reflection growing more distorted with each surge. Fingers stretching. Face drooping. My mouth contorting into a drawn out smile, teeth visible. I feel my lips pressed together. Pale grey fingers climb onto my shoulder. A cold burst of air is blown onto my neck. I blink and the glass is completely still. My reflection normal. It’s nothing. You’re just tired. 

As I shift toward the next door I throw glances back at the mirror. Heart thundering. Come on, two more rooms. I open the next door, swiftly taking a photo. Nearly dead. What? I charged it before I left. Sighing I observe the simply decorated room full of dark wood furniture and dull colours, only pale pink flowers on the quilt of a double bed. A few framed photos dotted around, all blurry. I leave the room, stalking to the last door. 

The handle is somewhat jammed, so it  opens with a jolt. I’m met with the vision of many dolls facing the doorway. They sit stiffly on a shelf, some on a rocking chair, one neatly on the bed. It’s laid on its side, head resting atop a dusty pillow. Pristine coiled brown hair. It’s glossy blue eyes looking blankly at me. 

The hissing begins again. Louder. I spin a full circle seeing nothing. Yet the hissing grows louder, more insistent. I shakily go to take a picture. You have a job to finish. It’s dead. The light from my torch goes out. It tumbled out of my hand.

Somehow the lights start to flicker. That’s not possible. A cold wind rushes past. In the hallway I step backwards towards the front door. Keeping my gaze on the mirror.

A pale figure with long dark hair creeps over to me. It’s neck broken, snapped to the side. 

“OUT!” A mangled voice demanded. Lunging at me.

Hastily I find the handle and stumble out of the house. Its pouring outside. Lightning strikes in the distance. I run as fast as possible down the damaged stairs and through the garden. Tripping I look back. The lights are off and the figures gone. Still I clamber into my car,  blood rushing in my ears, heart pounding in my chest. I turn on the car, hit the accelerator and drive off.
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