In the Scream House

There was only one rule: don't open the door. No matter how loud the whimpers and screams got. Sometimes, they were only whispers, easily mistaken for wind sneaking in through the drafty house. But most of the time, the screams started off bloodcurdling, suddenly splitting the silence like bullets tearing through paper targets. Then they would fade until it was quiet all over again.

The FBI agents say he tortured people in that room - brunette, curly haired women with brown eyes and sun-kissed skin. Just like two of the smiling faces frozen in perfectly balanced frames decorating the walls of the family room.

Surrogates they called them. As if we never had to endure any of my father's anger and frustration. The only difference between us and those women was that their death was physical, because yes, we died too.

Maybe it's why we've stayed, even after they dragged out his twisted trophies, infected journals, and rusted tools. The house is our casket, where our happiness and will are laid to rest.

So nothing has really changed here, except for a lock on the door, demanding our obedience and locking the ghosts of the women inside.

It's too late, though. The screams and evil have already carved themselves into this house.