House of Horror
The house was old. As old as the city itself, and no one alive could remember when the city began. It had always been and always would be. You felt you owed it respect for still existing. It was rotten and decrepit, decaying and crumbling. However, its continued presence and age still summoned visitors. Many visitors from all over the realm came to visit the city. And most came to see the house.
The house was legendary. Throngs of visitors shuffled awkwardly at a safe distance outside it, daring each other to venture inside, but few actually did. They all knew that when someone entered that house, they were never seen again.
Residents of the city whispered stories of what was inside that house. They told tales of guttural noises from unimagined orifices, sounds of clattering bones and rending of flesh, and eternal cries of pain. But for the visitors, all they heard were the whispers. Still, they came and gathered around that house, making their own stories.
Some claimed it was once owned by an evil sorcerer who made deals with a devil. Others told tales of a vile cult who summoned creatures from a realm much darker and more distant than our own. Of course, no one alive remembered or could corroborate any of these stories.
What was known and in living memory was that those who entered were never seen again. Visitors had stories of distant relatives whose names they barely recalled, plucking up the courage to enter and face whatever was in there. What had happened to them once they had? Well, no one had heard from them again, so they must have met a horrific end or eternal suffering at the hands of some indescribable clutch of creatures. Surely?
Today, a group of visitors, long travelled from Spaldahn, were daring one of their numbers to enter and see what lurked across the threshold. She was a plucky young thing. Hair pulled back over her small ears, revealing a toothy, confident grin. She carried an improvised weapon of sorts and various symbols of faith. Hedging her bets against whatever was inside. She felt the pressure of her peers building inside her, swallowing the nervousness and trepidation. She had heard her own stories. There were no creatures inside, just a man whose soul had turned black and was consumed by never-ending hatred of all things. She had faced many a similar man on this path. She wasn’t afraid of such a man, but the stories of what he did to those who entered.
Rallied by the crowd, she edged towards the rusting, rotting front door and peeked in through the shattered and dusty windows. Was that movement in the shadows? Were those eyes? What was that sound? She turned back to her friends and saw the eyes of her unrequited love, whom she was so desperate to impress. She gulped and took a deep breath, gingerly pushing the squeaking door open.
After all, they were just stories, weren’t they?