Don't Visit The Last House

                                    

                                              
Madness is an Art (Nyhterides Writing Prompt)
                          
At the end of the Lauden Close, Little Wrotham, there was a house that always sat in the shadows. Birds did not chirp or fly past. Children were warned to never approach it. Animals that strayed too near ended up dead. Trees wilted despite their best attempts to survive; crispy grey leaves lay in piles along the kerb outside the two-storey, rickety wooden house.
                          
And one house, a little sunflower yellow bungalow, further up the road, number 32, would stand vacant for several months of the year, a 'For Sale' sign rammed at a wonky angle in front. And at some point every year, families from out of town would visit it with a view of buying. And inevitably after they move in, several months later they would leave.

                          
The MacDonalds were no different.
                          
A family of four, a plump smiley mother and a thin, gangly father, and two young boys, five and seven years, moved into 32 Lauden Close one summer. The boys were rowdy and adventurous. The parents were friendly and acquainted themselves with the neighbours, who smiled and made sociable chatter. The children mingled. Promises were exchanged of walking to school together and playing afterwards.
                          
Inevitably, one day, the MacDonald boys ventured into the dark, abandoned house. The neighbours watched from behind their curtains, making excuses not to let their little ones out for the day. The boys ventured up the wooden steps, curiosity overwhelming any apprehension.
                          
The air was several degrees colder than the rest of the street. Timmy, the younger brother, looked to Charlie for support.
                          
"You sure about this?"
                          
Charlie gave him a scornful look. "What, are you scared?"
                          
"No," Timmy said indignantly. As if to prove his point, he rushed up the rickety front steps and pushed the cracked oak door. It swung open with reluctance, revealing its abyssal shadows. Timmy shivered, and then forced himself to stand straight. "I'm not scared of anything."
                          
Charlie peered over his shoulder. It was a barely-decorated house with shadows and cobwebs perching in the corners. A stale scent hovered in the air, making it difficult to breathe. Charlie squared his shoulders and marched in, ignoring his fluttering heart. Timmy scrambled after, not wanting to be left behind. The door swung shut, leaving them in darkness except for the tiny shreds of light peering through the moth-eaten curtains. To their left was a large living room. Beside its entrance, stairs stretched into an endless darkness.
                          
"Hello?" Charlie yelled. His voice died away. Tiny whispers filled the air.
                          
With another big breath, Charlie stomped to the left. The living room was spacious, with a cobweb-strewn grand piano in the far corner and ripped couches sitting before a long-extinguished fireplace. A thick inch of dust settled on the ground with small children's footprints upon them.
                          
"It's a boy!" A tiny whisper floated through the air. Confused, Charlie and Timmy swiveled round and round, seeking the speaker. There was nobody there. "Are you here to play with us?"
                          
Charlie's mouth opened and shut. No sound came out.
                          
"Yes, yes we are," said Timmy bravely, sticking out his chest. "Where are you?"
                          
"We're here," the voice breathed. Before two pairs of wide eyes, white dust swirled and materialised into two little girls and a little boy. The two girls looked about the same age as Charlie. The little boy about the same as Timmy. The first girl, with thick red hair, giggled. "I'm Maddy and this is Lucy and Billy. You're here to play with us!"
                          
"Yes!" Timmy's grin split from ear to ear. "Let's play!"
                          
Maddy darted forward and tapped Charlie on the shoulder. It felt like a soft, cool breeze. "You're it!"
                          
Charlie didn't need further encouragement. With a shout, he sprinted at Maddy, who screamed with laughter and dashed away. Lucy and Billy joined in, shouting encouragement and squealing when Charlie rushed at them. He caught Billy – or thought he did – his hand went through his arm. Billy jumped, mischief glittering in his brown eyes. He ran after Lucy, waving his arms and shouting. He didn't catch her and settled for Maddy instead. She squeaked, and then tagged Charlie again.
                          
There was so much room to play. They tore round and round the furniture. Charlie and Timmy were flushed pink and panting, their eyes bright with excitement. They shouted at the tagged, egging them on, punching the air.
                          
Charlie was tagged again, this time by Lucy. She giggled, green eyes glittering. Swirling around, she raced up the stairs. Charlie tore after her, his eyes locked on her brown bobbing curls. She turned around once and goaded him with a cheeky grin before disappearing through the doorway at the top.
                          
Charlie leapt through it – and found himself pedaling his feet in mid-air. His heart jumped to his throat. He barely had time to scream before it was cut abruptly short on his impact onto hard ground.
                          
"Charlie!" Timmy dashed after him, his brow knitted. "What's wrong?"
                          
He peered through the doorway. There was an endless pit that was swallowed by darkness.
                          
"Charlie?"
                          
"You'll play with us, won't you?" Lucy's voice came from behind him. There was a tiny push in Timmy's back. Before he could scream, he was in the air, too. And then he was falling.
                          
The last thing he saw was the three children standing atop the doorway, staring down at him with broad smiles.
                          
****
                          
The neighbours offered sincere condolences. What a tragedy to lose two young boys to an accident, they said. The parents must be distraught, they said. Mr. and Mrs. MacDonald couldn't cope with their grief. They, too, moved away, as had all the families before them.
                          
The neighbours of Little Wrotham waved the MacDonalds away. When the car disappeared, they looked at each other.
                          
"At least our children remain safe for another year," said one.
                          
"Yes," said another, nodding with a grim expression on his face. "We are all susceptible to becoming beasts, but for our children, we're willing to do everything."
                          
Word count: 1000. Genre: paranormal.