Storyteller Inc.

File I. Archive HSSI

Terri — Wed, 30 Apr 2008 15:16:05 +0000

Amber was the kind of girl that most people avoided. It was not because of her outrageous body odor (which everyone at the age of ten had), or the fact that she never ate fast foods or any meats, or really even that she had a great fear of the ball pits in Chucky Cheeses; they did not like her because she never wanted to be touched.

Amber Clemmens supported her local habit of alcoholism by snitching full bottles of tequila from her mother’s cabinet. The cabinet had a lock on the door, but it was well known that her mother just left the key in her top drawer of her bedside stand. (Keep that in mind in case you need just a quick shot of something to get your heart racing.) She drank regularly, like the vitamins she took in the morning to keep healthy, a short gulp of vodka to get her through the day and some rum at night to help her sleep.
The effects that the alcohol had on her system did not seem to bother her as she contented herself with the fact that about fourteen million people in the US abuse alcohol or were “alcoholics”. That came out to be about one in every thirteen people. See, she came to know that it was way closer to twelve out of thirteen people in her school alone that drank frequently throughout the day, therefore it did not bother her so much. She also just told herself, when the alcohol had seeped into her blood, clouding her thoughts and making her tempted to believe maybe she did have a problem, that men were twice as likely to to be alcoholics than women. And since she was almost a woman, at the age of seventeen, she did not truly think that she would be in too much trouble.
Alcohol got her over her fear of people touching her. School used to be Hell when people would bump into her in the hall, purposely swerving into her so that shoulders brushed. So, alcohol, she found, numbed her response time so that she did not care. It was a good camouflage because as soon as she started drinking (and quit reacting to touches), she made a bunch of friends. (Granted, these friends were alcoholics too. Amber did not kid herself about them).
Eventually, she even talked herself into having a boyfriend. He did not really have an alcohol problem, like the rest of her friends, but when he was around, Amber did. The whole arm-around-the-shoulders thing he seemed to enjoy. (It made her skin crawl). He wanted to go further than the, as she called it, tongue-down-my-throat thing and do the hand-in-places-where-it-should-not-be thing instead… or at the same time. Talk about a overload of the disgusting.
Junk, as her boyfriend’s apt nickname was, enjoyed a little more on the … dangerous side of things. He did not steal alcohol from his mother, but prescription pills. He popped those pills like candy at such a atrocious rate that Amber wanted to gag looking at him. (NOTE: Ground Pills are not the same as Smarties! Got it?)
Amber quickly found out that pills and alcohol do not mix.
She did not realize how drunk she really was until, when offered a pill by Junk, she accepted. How would she have known how bad the combination was?
Oops.

Ducks eating Cats (ONE)

Terri — Mon, 21 Apr 2008 15:18:53 +0000

The sound of chalk scraping against the rough sidewalk drew Paul out of his admiring of the rear end of Mrs. Lane across the street. He was supposed to be watching his little sister and, as he forced himself to tear his gaze away from the delectable Mrs. Lane as she washed her car outside, he returned to daydreaming with only half-attention for his two-year-old sister, Delaney.
Paul was not the only one that knew that Mrs. Lane was the hottest mom on the block, most of his friends were also content just to watch from his second floor bedroom window with the hopes of seeing the sexy momma. She seemed, in Paul’s opinion, to support the idea of the boys’ fantasies and Paul knew that, because Mr. Lane was never home, Paul would, once he was old enough (as in, had grown a little bit of stubble… or a few hairs) try and persue the older woman.
A shrill scream made Paul jump. He looked around for Delaney and, seeing her calmly playing with the blob of yellow that used to be chalk before it crumbled enough to leave residue all over her arms and clothing, he scanned the neighborhood. It had to be Mrs. Lane.
The water from the hose that Mrs. Lane had been using was splashing against her legs and she did not seem to notice as she stared at the young girl in front of her. The girl was small, maybe about eight years old, with a beaten up black backpack and scuffed sneakers, jeans with holes too numerous to count, and a bright red t-shirt that supported a bar somewhere in Texas. The remarkable thing was that the girl resembled Mrs. Lane so closely, Paul was worried that she would be Mrs. Lane’s daughter.
Even from across the street, Paul could hear Mrs. Lane’s surprise in her voice as the young girl handed Mrs. Lane a letter and, after she read it, her eyes opening in surprise more with every word, she quickly ushered the girl inside the house and out of Paul’s line of sight.
He sighed, annoyed that Mrs. Lane was going inside, and knowing at the same time it was about that time to take Delaney inside and get her cleaned up before Mom noticed that she was covered in chalk… again.
He scooped up his little sister, who squealed once, then wrapped her yellow arms around her brother giddily, and walked inside, pushing open the door with his toe so that it slammed shut with a snap. The cool air that assaulted him as he walked inside took him by surprise, but he was sure to make no noise. He had not noticed how hot it really was outside.
He took the stairs two at a time to reach the second floor and the bathroom where he uncermonially dropped his sister onto the ratted rug in front of the tub with the order to strip down so she could take a bath. When he returned in ten minutes she was still wearing most of her clothes with an arm stuck half in, half out, of her t-shirt. He sighed heavily and assisted her in taking off the rest of her clothes before he ran lukewarm water.
Distracted, yet again, he half-heard the noise of Delaney splashing around in the water and giggling, but not as much as he imagined the conversation of Mrs. Lane with the mysterious girl and what the letter could possibly be about. He had no idea, but with an imagination like his (and the fact that Mrs. Lane was involved) provoked him to think of the most lude sort of concepts.
Mrs. Lane must have had an affair.
Mr. Lane had an affair?
Both of them had an affair and this girl came out of it.
Who could Mrs. Lane have shared a bed with? Some burly guy with lots of muscles (Paul regretted skipping his weight class earlier that day) with chin hair that would make any man proud.
Paul stood up and checked for the thirtieth time that day to make sure that he had not started to grow any beard (which he hadn’t.) He was disappointed, but sure that someday it would happen to him too.
Frowning, he grabbed the fluffy pink towel with the hood that looked like a pig that Delaney loved so much and scooped her up, a giggling mass of damp kid, and dried her all over before shrugging her over his shoulder and boucing off to her bedroom. He pretended like he was going to toss her on the bed as she shrieked until he tucked her under the covers and, as he had seen his mother do, kissed her on the forehead.
About four minutes later, Delaney was asleep and Paul was in his bedroom, staring out his window, waiting for a glimpse of his love.

The Tenant of Wilde Hill (TWO)

Terri — Fri, 11 Apr 2008 19:09:24 +0000

The little girl peered around the corner, her long fingers gripping the door jam until her knuckles turned white from the stress. Her breath came out in shallow whispers of breath, her eyes scanning the long hallway for any sound or to catch a slight movement. Nothing but a flicker of the wind through a window that she was sure she had not left open caught her attention.
Carefully, as not to even disturb the dust that cast a gray cushion across the floor, she stepped away from the doorway and darted down the hall. Before crossing the stairwell to the window that looked across the grounds, the girl glanced down the stairs.
She screamed. A large pool of red splashed across the ground in front of her and tumbled down the stairs just like if something had been pushed and-
Rache blinked a few times and pleaded with her stomach to stop throwing butterflies around. She prepared herself to relax just as she had taught herself to do, closing her eyes for just a moment until she forced herself to move on and take control of herself.
She tiptoed to the window and glanced out, relieved to see the empty yard. In the dark the grounds looked far different, but that was when she loved it. The scent of damp leaves and dead. She shuddered.
“Who are you?”
She whipped around, prepared to scream as she expected a man, but at seeing that it was just a boy, she only stiffened. “If you do not leave now, I will scream.”
The boy looked a little scared at her towering figure, but only cowered slightly, glancing away. “Why would you do that?”
She had to hesitate, as she had no real reason to scream. She knew that the boy could not possibly do her more harm, as he was a small child, than bring others to see her. “People will think that you are crazy for seeing people here.”
“But you are here, and I do see you.”
Rache relaxed her face into the misty-eyed look that made most people scream and run away in fear of ghosts and started to coo to herself. “Oh-ah-ooooh…”
The boy jerked away, but did not run. “What are you doing?” He reached out and touched her and immediately she stopped to glare at him.
“I am a ghost. You cannot touch me.”
The boy, getting perturbed, sighed. “But you aren’t a ghost. I just touched you and my hand did not go through.”
Rache huffed, turning away, back towards the window. “Go away.”
“But w hat are you doing at my house?”
The girl turned back to look at him with a frown. “This is not your house. I live here.”
“But no one lives here. What would you eat?” The boy looked genuinely confused. He bit his lip nervously, seeming to be afraid to even really look at her.
“I have been hiding.” She glanced away from him, then back. “And I eat what I want to.”
“Why are you hiding? Why don’t you live in town?”
Rache closed her eyes, remembering town. “The men are too loud.”
The boy looked around. “What men?”
“They will come up the stairs.”
He glanced at the stairs, free from the white carpet that the townsfolk had said used to cover them. Hard wood would make it simple to hear someone walking, where carpet would muffle any noise.”There is no one in the house but Mr. Browning and I.”
“But the men…” Rache’s eyes jumped to the stairs and then away. She jerked away from the window and threw herself back where she had come from, pulling the hidden stairs with a string and running up them.
With quick thinking, the boy followed, but Rache drew the stairs up after her far too fast for him to come up. “Go away! You did not see me!”
The boy, Acton, was confused and upset that the girl, probably his only source of conversation as she was only person other than Mr. Browning in the house, disappeared. Girls, he realized, were as confusing as all the literature proclaimed they were.
With a heavy heart, he left the room, trailing a cloud of heavy gray dust behind him as he walked.

The tenant of Wilde Hill (ONE)

Terri — Fri, 11 Apr 2008 18:48:34 +0000

The new tenant of Wilde Hill was immediately under the suspicion of insanity.
Five years before there had been a horrible murder; a whole family, the two parents and daughter, were all slaughtered by an enraged servant who had been fired (for looking at the daughter a little too frequently) the week before. The man had been caught a few days later, in a nearby town, and hung on a tree outside by a mob of townsfolk, making for the fourth ghost. Wilde Hill had been left barren for five years, a place of pranks and abandoned for kids to be dared to stay in fear of these ghosts. No one knew for sure if they wanted to believe what everyone said, being that there were ghosts in the Manor, but no one said they didn’t.
Therefore, the new tenant, a Mr. Robert Browning, was believed to be insane. No one else would rent the home, let alone buy it.
Mr. Robert Browning was far from being insane, but he did not mind if the townspeople thought of him to be a little off his rocker, as the children would just leave him alone. And if he encouraged the idea a little bit, he could not be judged for he enjoyed his peace and quiet.
Wilde Hill was a vast ground that included a harsh backdrop of staggering cliffs (Cowen Heights), with a dainty bridge (Ponden Bridge) that crossed over a lovely stream that flowed in front of the house to off-set the once-nicely graveled drive. Since Mr. Browning did not own a car, he was not too worried over the overgrown driveway, but the fact that vines had grown over the door bothered his allergies and his neat nature.
Mr. Browning, in fact, was not the only one being watched by the small following of townspeople; he had a small, sickly boy with him. The boy’s name was Acton Brontë, the son of Mr. Browning’s deceased sister. He was pale and underfed and almost immediately unnoticed by even Mr. Browning as they entered through the gates and up the walk to the front doors of the huge home.
The gravel crunched under Mr. Browning’s once-polished black, leather shoes and his cane, used mostly for show, made a curious third print on the ground that looked very like a three-legged dog the boy had once seen from his bedroom window back in Town.
Mr. Browning stared up at the huge house with a smile on his face, pleased with his purchase. He would fix up the large home with no fear, dismissing any idea of ghosts so that he could sell up the estate at a tidy profit.
It was unfortunate that he did not know he was going to die.