Original Stories Fan Fiction ❯ Humans and Monsters ❯ Paranormal ( Chapter 1 )
[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]
By: Smortz 
Trespassing into a mansion. Smart idea? No. Will it be done? Yes. Which one should she be more scared of though, the
mansion or the man who rescues her?
Miscellaneous: Original Stories Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Supernatural / Action | Type: Other | Uploaded On: 10.13.2009 | Updated On: 10.13.2009 | Pages: 5 | Words: 5.0K | Visits: 158 | Status: Work In Progress
Trespassing into a mansion. Smart idea? No. Will it be done? Yes. Which one should she be more scared of though, the
mansion or the man who rescues her?
Miscellaneous: Original Stories Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Supernatural / Action | Type: Other | Uploaded On: 10.13.2009 | Updated On: 10.13.2009 | Pages: 5 | Words: 5.0K | Visits: 158 | Status: Work In Progress
The Pointless Disclaimer: This is my story and my take on the strange monsters our humanity has created. Reviews and messages are appreciated. If there are any typosor grammatical errors I am sorry. I re-read and edit all my chapters at least four times but its hard to catch them.
Chapter 1
“Where's the location?” He asked stiffly as he pushed the magazine into the gun. The holster around both his shoulders were already filled, this was the last resort mini gun that would go in his worn out sneaker.
“A historic mansion,” his boss let out, turning right on the next street at the light, “here's the message.”
Leaning forward he clicked play on the cassette in the radio, and the recorded message played in the car.
“H-Hello?” The client asked quietly, they both heard voiced in the background and he gave a sigh, “This is ridiculous.”
It clicked and just when he thought they hung up the voice returned. “Uh, Aaron Vanhok, my sister is a journalist for a paranormal research team, publishes stories on stupid stories. Shouldn't even be called a journalist, she's more coo coo then those imaginary authors. I-Anyways,” he paused as if to clear his throat, “I-I got this number from one of her co-workers, I haven't heard of her in a couple days, she was going to check on this mansion on the corner of Orange and Glenco. Supposedly it was linked to accidental deaths and she's always getting into trouble with the police over trespassing.”
He snorted, and his boss cracked a smile as he pushed the glasses up on his nose. The message continued, “A-Anyways, I called the cops but they said no one had disturbed the property, i-if you could check it out, I can pay cash.”
His figurative tail was wagging, tongue hanging out at the last word. “Just find my sister, she's got black hair last time I knew, uh, I think she has blue eyes, never noticed, she's about as tall as Tinkerbell, and really tiny, doesn't eat much when she gets obsessed with a story. I-I just wanna get her home.”
The phone finally clicked off and the boss cleared his throat again. This time the cigarette he'd lit while listening almost fell out.
“The house's accidental death sound like a poltergeist. There's been no suspicious tales or anything though, nothing from neighbors or people passing by. The only thing I have on it, is that four people died, one was stabbed with a pair of scissors in the throat, bled out in the lounge, another fell down the stairs. One was slammed between a door in the upstairs bathroom and another fell off the third story roof.” the boss usually did the research before looking at the man in the passenger seat seriously.
“If this is a poltergeist, it's lasted a couple years; it's a strong one, find the girl quick, Landen.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~
“Name,” she forced out as she climbed another rod on the eleven foot ladder, “Elinore Vanhok, like hawk.” She gave a grunt as she flipped some of her short black bangs out of her face. Her hand reached out to the next rod. “Age,” she gritted out, arms trembling, “twenty-four.”
The ladder leaned backwards and she gaped throwing all her weight on it as it leaned back against the wall. “Occupation,” she proclaimed, “supernatural and paranormal journalist. Hobby…”
She paused, peering over the wall with a smile, “Following false leads that gets you into trouble.”
The solid concrete wall she'd just climbed was the boundary that enclosed a three story 15th century mansion. The wood was rotting, some beams on the porch cracked from earthquakes. “Oh,” she whispered in awe, bringing her Canon 15 megapixel SRL camera to her eyes, focusing in on the mansion as she snapped a side view of it. “I'd love to live here.”
A loud creak came from the house, and she heard it from the fence she'd yet to climb over, fifty yards away. She let the camera hang on her shoulder as she lowered herself down and jogged to the back. One hand was on her camera, her pointer finger hovering over the button in case she needed any quick shots.
The back door was hanging off the top hinge, the wind blowing it open but it resisted, beating shut rhythmically. The house radiated an eerie feeling, the one you'd get while watching a scary John Carpenter movie.
It wasn't the feeling of something popping out at you, like a door slamming open, a shadowy figure to dart in and out of the hall quickly. It felt like her stomach was empty. Her heart gained twice as much pounds as a sumo wrestler. The hairs on the back of her neck were standing up in terror. It was the feeling you got when you were looking the murderer straight in the eyes, waiting for him to move and for you to sprint away screaming for help.
It was the vulnerability that no one would hear you. The feeling that no one would start to search until you didn't show up to work the next day, or miss the next family reunion on the nearest holiday.
It was that feeling that she craved the adrenaline rush she got along with the tremors of terror.
She slid in the backdoor, her camera up as she heard footsteps in the roof above her. The lights flickered on all at once and she looked around her.
She was in the kitchen. There was no furnishing in the house. It had been looted in the Civil War, than closed off after several accidental deaths occurred. The wooden floor beams creaked in protest as she stepped on them, taking a snapshot of the kitchen. The hallway led into a lounge room, where only a bloodstains rug lay.
The rug had one corner folded underneath. It was designed like a floral purse a grandma would give to a daughter after forgetting about her birthday the day of. The blood stain on the bottom right hand corner, just in front of the fireplace was the size of a four mouth old baby; small dime size splatters circled it.
The click of her camera reminded her that the shot was taken had been cleared and she turned around as a loud pop of wood disturbed her.
“Poltergeist,” she whispered, “maybe, no, it would be more aggressive.”
If on cue of the rejection, an object hurled itself into the room. It was so fast her eyes didn't have enough time to identify it. It landed with the sharp end in the wood, as if someone had slammed it down, the pair of scissors were metal, almost like out of a sewing kit.
She snapped a picture of that before the lights flickered off again.
Her fear doubled and she turned the night-vision on her camera on and pulled the flashlight from her pocket. The lounge connected to two different things, one was the hallways she'd walked in from, and the other was the main entrance room.
The main entrance room, which she entered, was the room the guest would first see upon stepping into the house. It was located just left of the door, and was used to impress the guest. This wasn't impressive though. No furnishing was in this room unlike the other which had the rug.
The wallpaper was ripped and in some places missing. A spot on the wall indicated there was once a huge painted. A picture was documented in this room too before she heard a series of door slams upstairs.
A gust of wind blew through the house and the slam of the back door had her jumping out of her skin.
She dug through her pocket for her cell phone, but it was lifted out of her hands and thrown against the wall. It exploded in smithereens and she turned her camera onto video mode and circled the room.
Her camera was tugged on, and her upper lip curled as she tore it from the paranormal grasp and slid it under her sweatshirt. “You won't touch that again,” she warned.
The lights flickered, and the pair of scissors from the other room was thrown to the place her cell phone had hit.
She left the room and stood out of the way in front of the front door. A staircase led to the second floor and she swallowed hard before she went up the stairs, each one croaking in objection and she snorted. “I'm not that heavy.”
She froze as she looked ahead of her, eyes widening and for once in her career she decided this wasn't a false lead.
The shadow loomed in front of her, yet it wasn't connected to her. It brought up its hand, whoever it belong to, and at once jumped off the wall. In a last movement she hugged the railing as it slammed into her shoulder. She was thrown into the railing as the wood creaked and dismounted itself from the step it was on.
She gasped as she swayed over the edge before falling. A loud crack had her wincing and she didn't know if it was a bone or her camera as she landed on her side. Her head felt so light all of a sudden. Her eyes closed and she let darkness surround her just this once.
“Better not touch the camera,” she whispered before the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth.
He had one gun held loosely in his hands as he broke the backdoor off the bottom hinge. The front door had been boarded up. His radio on his belt went off. “Landen, I found a ladder on the back of the property, and a bag belonging to Elinore Vanhok,” his boss confirmed.
“I just entered the house,” Landen repeated, his shaggy hair pulled into a messy ponytail that hung under the back of his collar.
The sound of a groan had him at a slow, cautious jog. Poltergeists loved surprising people, but no one could surprise him.
He passed through the hallway; stopping at the front door before turning around, the hallway had another hallway on the opposite side of the wall. Whoever had built this house had had a thing for labyrinths.
The journalist was groaning on the floor, and he could only imagine that she had just regained consciousness, but had not regained her mind yet. He dropped down next to her, patting her cheek, “Hey, you with me yet?”
“Take the money,” she begged, “just not the camera. It's all I have.”
He snorted, he hated people like this. The ones that thought there possessions were all they have, excluding their family. They took those around them for granted.
“You have a brother,” he reminded, “one that worries about you.” His tone turned soft, almost as if he felt sorry for her.
Her eyes slowly opened and he swallowed hard. The eyes weren't something you couldn't notice. They weren't the normal blue Aaron had made them out to be. They were glowing sapphires, ones that were so deep it was like staring into the middle of the ocean, where you couldn't dive down without imploding.
Her eyebrow rose, “I don't have a brother.”
“That's the amnesia you fell off the stairs… do you remember your name?” He asked.
She snorted at him, rolling the blue eyes he hadn't been able to look away from. “I never hit my head though, I remember my name, job, everything. I never had a brother, I can promise you that.”
“Who's Aaron then?” He asked suspiciously, he could hear windows and doors slamming shut from upstairs.
“Aaron…” she let the name pass her lips, “Aaron, that idiot, he's my doorman. Don't' tell me he called the cops again, stupid!”
“Your doorman called for you?” He asked in shock.
“You're a cop,” she cursed, “shit, you're a cop.”
“I'm not a cop,” he sneered, “how long have you been in here, are you bleeding anywhere? Does anywhere hurt?” He asked quickly. The noises were getting closer.
“I chipped a tooth but that's it, I-I passed out on accident, it's just something I do when I've crossed the adrenaline line,” she explained as she sat up and looked around her. She reached down her sweater and Landen couldn't help his wide eyes.
She pulled out the camera and turned it on, it had gone off on standby. “Oh, it's been two days,” she whispered in awe.
“You were asleep for two days?” He repeated.
Elinore nodded, as if it was normal for her to succumb to sleep for long amounts of time, maybe this was her way of hibernation, and she hadn't yet finished her human evolution.
The stairs creaked one by one, and he knew there was a shadow looming behind him that had Elinore's eyes as wide as an owls.
“Let's go,” he ordered as he picked her up.
She snapped a picture of the shadow before pressing the camera against her chest. “What about the poltergeist though?!” She shouted as he ran through the backdoor.
“What about it? We were hired to retrieve you, not the poltergeist,” he murmured.
“I-It killed people though,” she whispered and he chuckled at her solemn attitude. “People shouldn't trespass,” he let out, “they were probably stupid teens doing stupid dares.”
“I'm not a stupid teen,” she argued. He shot her a sideways glance as he let her down and began walking towards the front gate. He could smell the exhaust fumes from the black Impala his boss was waiting in. “No,” he agreed, “you're a stupid journalist!”
She made a noise between a gasp and a groan, “Bastard!” She shouted. “I'll have you know that I passed with flying colors.”
“Were they inside the line?” He tossed over his shoulder.
“What line?” She asked in confusion and he snorted victoriously. She shook her head stomping towards him.
“Yo-You pain in the ass! I didn't ask for you to save me! I was just fine!” She shouted.
Landen chuckled wryly, “Oh yea, sleeping on the floor of a haunted house is just fine.”
The woman growled, and he heard the click of a camera. “I'm putting your picture on the front page, and complaining about the company you work for!” She shouted. “…search and rescue asses.”
He opened the gate, spotting the Impala parked twenty feet away up the curb.
His boss was smoking again in the car as he looked at the rear view mirror. “She looks fine…” He trailed off in confusion. Landen nodded, “She fell asleep on the floor after the damned thing pushed her off the stairs. Asleep.” He repeated.
His boss chuckled before they watched her pick up the bag at the end of the corner. At the same corner she held out a thumb towards oncoming traffic.
“She's gotta be an idiot to hitchhike,” Landen grumbled.
“We rescue her from a poltergeist, now from a rapist?” He asked.
Landen groaned in irritation as his boss drove up to her. “Get in. We don't get paid until you're safe with your brother.”
She shot him a glare, pulling on a sweatshirt that had been tied to the shoulder strap of her bag. The sweatshirt was a standard grey and had the words Parazine on it.
“How'd you get here?” His boss asked, leaning over the console to look up at her through Landen's window.
She sighed, “Hitchhike, taxi's fares are a pain in the ass and you get good conversation with strangers.”
“Does that include the rapes?” Landen asked. The woman glared at him again before leaning forward, her camera dangling off her neck. “You're a real work of art you know? Something like a Picasso…”
“My face is fine,” Landen returned.
She poked his cheek, scrunching her nose, “Okay then, whatever helps you sleep at night.”
Landen growled, he knew he didn't look like he normally did. They'd just gotten back from a faery hunt and hadn't had time to wash on the way from the airport to the mansion.
“Get in or I'm shoving you in the trunk,” he threatened. The woman smirked proudly, “Who's the rapist now?”