Caitlin
New member
Marcie couldn't get the idea out of her head that she was being watched. She knew it was stupid with her living alone, but she couldn't shake the feeling every time she entered that room. It sent shivers down her spine, made her heart beat uncontrollably, and made her perspire profusely. But she couldn't NOT go in the room, it were as tho she were uncontrollably drawn to it like a shard of metal to a magnet.
Sometimes, tho Marcie felt stupid acknowledging this thought to herself even, she swore she could hear a low and eerie whisper of her name...sshh, Marcie, sshh, Marcie...beckoning her, drawing her.
It was a palatial old house, sold when the last surviving
heir of the estate expired after a long and fulfilling life. Marston was his name, Squire to the locals. That was practically all Marcie knew about the house.
Now she studiously began to wonder why the house had come so unbelievably cheap. Why the locals worriedly crossed themselves and rushed on by whenever they saw her. And why, oh why, no-one ever spoke of the S-Q-U-I-R-E (the only way they ever spoke of Marston in Marcie's presence) with anything other than bated breathe, as tho expecting to be struck dead for the mere mention of his name.
Once again Marcie found herself in that dreaded position. Stood in the hallway diagonally to the door, desperately trying to deny it's very existence and yet...knowing, just knowing, she would be powerless to resist its pull.
As she floated on down the hallway towards that dreaded door, as she was drawn through the door like a wisp of smoke from a chimney, as she heard the city-hired workmen laughing and cursing, as she confusedly wondered why (oh why) she always found herself in that spine-chilling room with no memory of opening the door...she heard the blood-curdling cry of a terrified child...'Mummy, a ghost, a ghost!'. 'Sshh, Marcie, dear' said Mum 'Sshh, Marcie. Don't worry, it's just the sun playing tricks on your eyes.'
Sometimes, tho Marcie felt stupid acknowledging this thought to herself even, she swore she could hear a low and eerie whisper of her name...sshh, Marcie, sshh, Marcie...beckoning her, drawing her.
It was a palatial old house, sold when the last surviving
heir of the estate expired after a long and fulfilling life. Marston was his name, Squire to the locals. That was practically all Marcie knew about the house.
Now she studiously began to wonder why the house had come so unbelievably cheap. Why the locals worriedly crossed themselves and rushed on by whenever they saw her. And why, oh why, no-one ever spoke of the S-Q-U-I-R-E (the only way they ever spoke of Marston in Marcie's presence) with anything other than bated breathe, as tho expecting to be struck dead for the mere mention of his name.
Once again Marcie found herself in that dreaded position. Stood in the hallway diagonally to the door, desperately trying to deny it's very existence and yet...knowing, just knowing, she would be powerless to resist its pull.
As she floated on down the hallway towards that dreaded door, as she was drawn through the door like a wisp of smoke from a chimney, as she heard the city-hired workmen laughing and cursing, as she confusedly wondered why (oh why) she always found herself in that spine-chilling room with no memory of opening the door...she heard the blood-curdling cry of a terrified child...'Mummy, a ghost, a ghost!'. 'Sshh, Marcie, dear' said Mum 'Sshh, Marcie. Don't worry, it's just the sun playing tricks on your eyes.'