The "Creative Writing" forum, which includes Retro Game Reviews, has been archived and is now read-only. You cannot post here or create a new thread or review on this forum.
Opening Chapter
The old floorboards creaked and cracked under his weight, and the door almost collapsed as it was slammed shut by the wind in a somewhat textbook way. John Jackson worked for Her Majesty’s Secret Service, on the Paranormal Investigations Team and had been called out to investigate the fifth red herring of the week – or so he thought. There was a smaller door to his left which, when opened, looked like a cloakroom and a few in front of him that were either boarded up, or so dust and dirt cluttered they wouldn’t budge. A golden chandelier, stained with dried wax, hung high above him, holding twelve burnt out candles. It swung as the wind bolted through the mansion, and though still elegant, looked strangely at home in this rickety old house.
John was becoming increasingly uncertain about this case, and though he was the paranoid type, he’d managed to spot four out of four set-ups this week. Something felt different about this one though, there had been reports that strange sounds and sights had been coming from the place at night. Back at the headquarters everyone was working overtime, so it was a one-man operation. He was kept on at the office every other night, thanks to mountains of paperwork and media problems. All this left him with was a constant headache in need of two paracetemol an hour and an itchy trigger finger.
As he continued up the stairs, the confidence of being on the ground floor left him, as he knew that all that was holding him up were a few crumbling walls and some sodden foundations. He reached the first floor landing and proceeded to move slowly down the hall. The walls were littered with crude, disturbing paintings that were mysteriously untouched – a sharp contrast of the cracked and peeling grey paint. He moved towards a large, dominant door, the moonlight shining upon the once glamorous silver letters that rested there:
“Unlit Flame”
With a steady hand, he opened the door. It swung right open, placing the magnificent room in his full view. John dropped to the floor – he was dead.
The old floorboards creaked and cracked under his weight, and the door almost collapsed as it was slammed shut by the wind in a somewhat textbook way. John Jackson worked for Her Majesty’s Secret Service, on the Paranormal Investigations Team and had been called out to investigate the fifth red herring of the week – or so he thought. There was a smaller door to his left which, when opened, looked like a cloakroom and a few in front of him that were either boarded up, or so dust and dirt cluttered they wouldn’t budge. A golden chandelier, stained with dried wax, hung high above him, holding twelve burnt out candles. It swung as the wind bolted through the mansion, and though still elegant, looked strangely at home in this rickety old house.
John was becoming increasingly uncertain about this case, and though he was the paranoid type, he’d managed to spot four out of four set-ups this week. Something felt different about this one though, there had been reports that strange sounds and sights had been coming from the place at night. Back at the headquarters everyone was working overtime, so it was a one-man operation. He was kept on at the office every other night, thanks to mountains of paperwork and media problems. All this left him with was a constant headache in need of two paracetemol an hour and an itchy trigger finger.
As he continued up the stairs, the confidence of being on the ground floor left him, as he knew that all that was holding him up were a few crumbling walls and some sodden foundations. He reached the first floor landing and proceeded to move slowly down the hall. The walls were littered with crude, disturbing paintings that were mysteriously untouched – a sharp contrast of the cracked and peeling grey paint. He moved towards a large, dominant door, the moonlight shining upon the once glamorous silver letters that rested there:
“Unlit Flame”
With a steady hand, he opened the door. It swung right open, placing the magnificent room in his full view. John dropped to the floor – he was dead.
There have been no replies to this thread yet.
Opening Chapter
The old floorboards creaked and cracked under his weight, and the door almost collapsed as it was slammed shut by the wind in a somewhat textbook way. John Jackson worked for Her Majesty’s Secret Service, on the Paranormal Investigations Team and had been called out to investigate the fifth red herring of the week – or so he thought. There was a smaller door to his left which, when opened, looked like a cloakroom and a few in front of him that were either boarded up, or so dust and dirt cluttered they wouldn’t budge. A golden chandelier, stained with dried wax, hung high above him, holding twelve burnt out candles. It swung as the wind bolted through the mansion, and though still elegant, looked strangely at home in this rickety old house.
John was becoming increasingly uncertain about this case, and though he was the paranoid type, he’d managed to spot four out of four set-ups this week. Something felt different about this one though, there had been reports that strange sounds and sights had been coming from the place at night. Back at the headquarters everyone was working overtime, so it was a one-man operation. He was kept on at the office every other night, thanks to mountains of paperwork and media problems. All this left him with was a constant headache in need of two paracetemol an hour and an itchy trigger finger.
As he continued up the stairs, the confidence of being on the ground floor left him, as he knew that all that was holding him up were a few crumbling walls and some sodden foundations. He reached the first floor landing and proceeded to move slowly down the hall. The walls were littered with crude, disturbing paintings that were mysteriously untouched – a sharp contrast of the cracked and peeling grey paint. He moved towards a large, dominant door, the moonlight shining upon the once glamorous silver letters that rested there:
“Unlit Flame”
With a steady hand, he opened the door. It swung right open, placing the magnificent room in his full view. John dropped to the floor – he was dead.
The old floorboards creaked and cracked under his weight, and the door almost collapsed as it was slammed shut by the wind in a somewhat textbook way. John Jackson worked for Her Majesty’s Secret Service, on the Paranormal Investigations Team and had been called out to investigate the fifth red herring of the week – or so he thought. There was a smaller door to his left which, when opened, looked like a cloakroom and a few in front of him that were either boarded up, or so dust and dirt cluttered they wouldn’t budge. A golden chandelier, stained with dried wax, hung high above him, holding twelve burnt out candles. It swung as the wind bolted through the mansion, and though still elegant, looked strangely at home in this rickety old house.
John was becoming increasingly uncertain about this case, and though he was the paranoid type, he’d managed to spot four out of four set-ups this week. Something felt different about this one though, there had been reports that strange sounds and sights had been coming from the place at night. Back at the headquarters everyone was working overtime, so it was a one-man operation. He was kept on at the office every other night, thanks to mountains of paperwork and media problems. All this left him with was a constant headache in need of two paracetemol an hour and an itchy trigger finger.
As he continued up the stairs, the confidence of being on the ground floor left him, as he knew that all that was holding him up were a few crumbling walls and some sodden foundations. He reached the first floor landing and proceeded to move slowly down the hall. The walls were littered with crude, disturbing paintings that were mysteriously untouched – a sharp contrast of the cracked and peeling grey paint. He moved towards a large, dominant door, the moonlight shining upon the once glamorous silver letters that rested there:
“Unlit Flame”
With a steady hand, he opened the door. It swung right open, placing the magnificent room in his full view. John dropped to the floor – he was dead.