Status: My first mystery. Maybe a bit of horror. Not likely.
The Ghosts of the *** House
Introduction
The street was always welcoming, always beautiful. It was filled with smiling faces of the young and the old. The houses and shops that tightly filled that freshly paved road were full of life and color. Everyone knew each other; they grew up together, went to grade school together. They worked in their family-owned stores, which their children would someday work at and own. It wasn't well known, or even really heard of. There were never any tourists or visitors who passed by, yet the shops and stores were doing just fine. It was really any wonder how such a small town could survive all these years without a simple highway, or Wal-Mart, or even a McDonald's. Nobody in this town even owned a car.
Every morning the town's folk would crowd into the small bread-egg-and-milk shop, owned by the Williams' family. They'd buy all that they needed before heading next door to the Johnson's fruit-and-berries shop. Next, they'd either be at the Knight's meat shop, or the Webb's farm to start work for the day. Of course, the Webb's family wasn't the only one with a farm. There were the Jackson's, the Andrews', the Anderson's, the Cyrus', and many, many more. Closer to dinner time, everyone would sit down in the Adams' contrified-1950's diner. That was the basic outline of this unnamed town's everyday life.
But at the end of the road, where the dark green grass began, and about a quarter of a mile away, was a house. This house had been abandoned since 1956. The windows of the house were boarded up, only letting in the smallest of glimpses into the semi-barren home. It was filthy to the point of utter disgust. The grass surrounding it was brown and long, reaching nearly to everyone's waist as it swayed in the breeze. The bricks were grey with a musky scent so strong that most had to hold their breath and cover their noses. The wooden boards that made up the roof and porch were black as ashes, creaked louder than the moaning wind, and parts of it were broken with wide, gaping holes. There were faded yellow lines of tape, that blew freely in the wind, that were not the only hints of the horrible crimes that took place inside of that very house.
The home wasn't always like this. It used to be the best house on that little street. It was built and owned by the Jones' — an African-American family who were slaves during the 1700's. They were freed when their slave-owners died, just at the beginning of the nineteenth-century. The Jones' held yearly barbeques after the Civil War. Whenever you passed by the home, you would see tiny children playing outside. There would be parents, grandparents, and even great-grandparents, sitting outside in the hot Georgia sun on the wide porch. There would be trays of lemonade, the smell of freshly cut grass, and smiles along everyone's face. The now-grey bricks were bright red and new; the broken and splintered wood that made up the porch and roof was a healthy brown that was so smooth and clean that you could have eaten off of it.
But, that all changed in the year of 1883. Thirty gunshots could be heard echoing from the Jones' home. Everyone rushed toward the house, concerned for the family that was loved by all. The bravest one to enter the home was Richard Ford, the well-known sheriff of that quaint town — but only after the suspicions were confirmed. All of the Jones' family were shot and killed. The house itself was covered in blood inside and out; it was the only splash of color and sign of life in the place anymore. All that could be considered solid evidence was bullet shells from a revolver and a pistol — but who it belonged to, nobody had the slightest clue.
The only survivor of that nightmare of a night was Comfort Rosabella — the tiny baby who had been born earlier that night. She spent the remainder of her life with the Ford's family — that is, until she turned eighteen and ran away, screaming about ghosts and spirits as she left. Nobody had seen even a hint of a Jones' family member since.
Many people had lived in the house since then. All have died.
This is the story of the Ghosts of the Murder House.
Every morning the town's folk would crowd into the small bread-egg-and-milk shop, owned by the Williams' family. They'd buy all that they needed before heading next door to the Johnson's fruit-and-berries shop. Next, they'd either be at the Knight's meat shop, or the Webb's farm to start work for the day. Of course, the Webb's family wasn't the only one with a farm. There were the Jackson's, the Andrews', the Anderson's, the Cyrus', and many, many more. Closer to dinner time, everyone would sit down in the Adams' contrified-1950's diner. That was the basic outline of this unnamed town's everyday life.
But at the end of the road, where the dark green grass began, and about a quarter of a mile away, was a house. This house had been abandoned since 1956. The windows of the house were boarded up, only letting in the smallest of glimpses into the semi-barren home. It was filthy to the point of utter disgust. The grass surrounding it was brown and long, reaching nearly to everyone's waist as it swayed in the breeze. The bricks were grey with a musky scent so strong that most had to hold their breath and cover their noses. The wooden boards that made up the roof and porch were black as ashes, creaked louder than the moaning wind, and parts of it were broken with wide, gaping holes. There were faded yellow lines of tape, that blew freely in the wind, that were not the only hints of the horrible crimes that took place inside of that very house.
The home wasn't always like this. It used to be the best house on that little street. It was built and owned by the Jones' — an African-American family who were slaves during the 1700's. They were freed when their slave-owners died, just at the beginning of the nineteenth-century. The Jones' held yearly barbeques after the Civil War. Whenever you passed by the home, you would see tiny children playing outside. There would be parents, grandparents, and even great-grandparents, sitting outside in the hot Georgia sun on the wide porch. There would be trays of lemonade, the smell of freshly cut grass, and smiles along everyone's face. The now-grey bricks were bright red and new; the broken and splintered wood that made up the porch and roof was a healthy brown that was so smooth and clean that you could have eaten off of it.
But, that all changed in the year of 1883. Thirty gunshots could be heard echoing from the Jones' home. Everyone rushed toward the house, concerned for the family that was loved by all. The bravest one to enter the home was Richard Ford, the well-known sheriff of that quaint town — but only after the suspicions were confirmed. All of the Jones' family were shot and killed. The house itself was covered in blood inside and out; it was the only splash of color and sign of life in the place anymore. All that could be considered solid evidence was bullet shells from a revolver and a pistol — but who it belonged to, nobody had the slightest clue.
The only survivor of that nightmare of a night was Comfort Rosabella — the tiny baby who had been born earlier that night. She spent the remainder of her life with the Ford's family — that is, until she turned eighteen and ran away, screaming about ghosts and spirits as she left. Nobody had seen even a hint of a Jones' family member since.
Many people had lived in the house since then. All have died.
This is the story of the Ghosts of the Murder House.