A night at Ghostie Manor

The smell of copper fills my nose as I walk towards that house covered in that bright yellow tape. It reads, do not enter police work. It flutters in the breeze. This house was one of the few classic ones, made out of wood, stone, one of the few that had not died in the war. It rests off Titus street, down the way is one of the first coffin hotels in the city. It was a landmark, the people that owned the home renting it out to folks that wanted to feel the past, breathing down their necks. Popular, amongst thus with too much money and not enough sense to stay out of the slums.

Two weeks ago, Mary Beth Thrope and her lover Jackie Miller had rented it to escape the monotonous life of corporate power. Telling the same lies to their significant others, business trip. Business trip, the two most powerful words to come out of a corp rat's lips, not that anyone truly listens to such drek.

Passion, Sex, Lust, Power. Love is a four-letter word to these types, something to be laughed about after the latest carnal sin. But, see, people that rise into that tower don't think like others. They see a goal. They find a way to climb towards it throwing down those above them, making them scream real good, using the victim's blood to grease the next grip to make that climb easier.

You might say I'm a bitter old man with nothing to lose. But you're wrong about one thing. I'm not old. I got my license four years ago, right after I dropped out of that trade school focused on making flyers, work a little better. Found I don't have a taste for rich backsides and sucking on up till they wanted the job done. So, I picked to poke into lives, ruin them a bit, maybe save them if they aren't doing wrong.

So, now this case has been slammed shut tighter than a lid on your leftovers that you can't wait to devour after too many drinks. Praying it open takes a crowbar, but then you find yourself not enjoying it after. So, to me, it's a typical case. The husband of Mary-Beth told me to look into it. I told him half upfront, showed him my rate. I billed him for 120 hours, told him if we need more, we would talk. He didn't even blink an eye.

I called a few contacts got the location. But, unfortunately, it had been out of the public eye. Bad press for the cropos, bad press for the Classic Building Enjoyment Communities. Dumb name for a group of rich bastards that own old buildings, but CBEC loves the sound of their voice as much as they love rotting wood. So they want no press, but the best now than got the key time to let myself in.

Gravel rolling with that sound of a crunch under my boots, my right cyber eye is snapping pictures with each step. I got it set right now to a two-minute rate. So it's not bad for the outside. Storing the images on my brand new subnet memory, holding oh too much after today.

Each flash of the....wait who was that in the window. My eye travels towards the attic, a young girl no more than 11 was there, long black dress, curls in her hair. Holding a bunny rabbit, I know this cause my eye saw it, rolling back the picture viewing it now with both eyes. The display links in them, lighting up as I study it as I start to undo the door, that image displayed over the front of the house. It would do no good not to see. It has to be a doll or something, no biggie. I have been told they go all out for making it feel old-timey. That is pretty one step over the line. One toke of madness mixed into the feel, but those crazy rich bastards, you know. They want that amazing astrosphere, that drive to feel like it's a horror house. This name is on Ghostie Manor, the scrawl I read up on it before heading down. Booked out by the secret couple for the next two weeks, booked on the company card.

The image is pushed out with a blink of my eyes. Now staring at that door is massive with a door knocker of a severed hand in the center. The end of the appendage is dripping down blood, or the metal seems like it. It's made out of bright polished silver, carved it said on site by Jason Mackey, one of the best horror artists in the world. The director of slasher flicks and other twisted holos hired him to do this house two years ago. It's to make it the most spooky rental in the world.

With another annoyance-laced sigh, I reach into my long coat to bring out the iron key. I slam it forward into the lock as it gives with a loud content click. The door is shoved open with the toe of my steel toe as it creeks. Of course, the bastard creeks, as if it is trying so hard to be ominous. All of this is just for wealthy fucks who want to be scared before the rocks get off.

The lights are so dim one has to peer into the void, hoping it does not peek back. Then, with three blinks, my eyes shifting to low light, the joys of too much spent on your body during the Blood Feuds. It is a simple hallway, creepy pictures and stairs leading upwards, and the kitchen to the right. He had studied the blueprints. He knows where he needs to go.

Each step is a gunshot of sound. Each step is a creeky bastard of a sound. This is not a house for sneaking. As he watches ahead, nothing there in the doorway. As the camera clicks once more, an image of a little girl can be seen briefly, well another of those damn dolls this one is holding scissors. It almost made me jump out of my fucking skin. As I reach forward, it vanishes before my eyes, with a shake of my head."Damn, good smoke and mirrors. Talented director, fucking asshole."

Stepping into the room, my eyes scanning it all, taking in all those little details, seeking to find out what happened here. There is a sound behind me, just another trick I bet not turning yet needing these pictures, the body had been lying behind the bed, of the woman. The man was found upstairs in the shower. Both had been stabbed 30 times in the back.

No reason for names anymore. It was time to get cold about the work.

Click, Click, Click. Everything is documented to be sorted later. Each thing is to be scraped, tested, checked probed. Reaching to bring out my kit, the feeling of metal into my spine can be felt. My body is pitched forward, as a groan of shock leaves my lips, as I whirl around quickly that metal underlined into my skin, a gift from the war, is not even pierced into my flesh.

Standing there with a pair of scissors is that girl once more, dressed in her Victorian dress, with a look of pure malice and hate. Her eyes are burning at me with shock as she is stabbing at me with those long sliver scissors coated in a thin layer of my oil.

She leaps forward towards me as she passes through me, as I stumble along now with a wide swing of my right arm. She is gone. Fear is seizing my heart as I start to run for the door. It seems the tricks had been turned deadly in this god damn rich playpen.

As I run now, I can feel those scissors now at my throat. As I turn quickly, they nick it as the blood starts to drip downwards. As I leap forward towards the door, the exit is right there. But, the feeling of cold washes over my body as I look down at the blood dripping downwards.

"Welcome home, daddy. We will have so much fun."

That young voice is whispering into my ear as my life fades.....I have come home. I will never leave. She needs me. She just needs a playmate. Don't we all just need someone to hold us in the lands of the dead, keep us safe from monsters.