The house at the end of the street was pitch black, like the night that covered it endlessly. The rose vines twisted and turned as though trying to crawl its way into the desolated house; a house only spoken in hushed whispers regardless of age, man or woman, child or adult. A secret lay in it, a secret that no one will ever find out, that no one knows - no one living that is.

It used to be painted bright yellow, the parents of the children who lived down the road would tell them, but one would hardly believe it. The dark green vines of the thorn bush covered almost the full length of the house, and patches where paint could have existed has peeled and faded off from existence, leaving a dark grimy grey that was as gloomy as the house seemed. For they, for as they could remember, the house lay deserted, abandoned - a story untold. The sounds of laughter of a girl and boy would sometimes drift from the house, on the days where the sun did not shine. The sounds of a dog barking playfully would follow, but neither shadow nor silhouette was ever seen. They would tremble at the thought of it and feared their children would be foolish enough to approach the strange house. The light bulb of the lamppost at the end of street had been blown, yet no matter how many times it was changed, it refused to work. Flickering occasionally to the dismay of the people.

The once black gate that hung on one rusted hinge creaks in the wind like every old gate would. Yet days where the night was hot and sweltering, when the wind refused to blow, it creaked like it was being slowly opened. Those were the days where the parents shooed their children into the safety of their homes with the dreadlock bolted. The leaves rustled in the nonexistent wind, the dog would whine in their doghouse, the cat would hiss and spit then hide in a corner and the birds, the crickets and everything that contributed to the night sounds would fall to an eerie silence. The doors would rattle in this same nonexistent wind and so would the windows. Nothing ever happened, the people were left alone and so were the animals - nothing, until that night.

The specialist were called in, everything the people could think of. They poked and prodded the house with their tools and knowledge. Yet all was silent. The vines had wounded too thickly, too close for them to enter the house, they said. Clear the vines, they declared. They found the axe and the chainsaw in the garage. What happened next made them think twice. The rose bush had burst into a deepest darkest crimson red they had ever seen, a shade too close to black, a shade too close to the colour of dried blood. A black rose is possible, they said. They advanced towards the dilapidated house. All day and night they hacked away, ignoring the pricks and thorns of the rose bush. Tired they took a rest in the shade of one of the houses. Almost done, they murmured as they drowsed in the afternoon heat and they never woke up.

That night, a voice floated from the house. The adults fell into a deep sleep while the children shivered under their duvets, praying it would stop. For a little girl and boy that lived down the street, it felt as though it beckoned them. Hand in hand, they walked down the road, each step taking them closer to the forsaken house. They saw the little opening just enough space for a child to crawl through. A doll faded and worn at the bottom of the steps, the tall rickety steps with its once brass but now rusted railings was that they saw. The door at the end of the bleak hallway slammed and opened itself as though moving in a strong wind. Up the shaky staircase they went. Round and round till they reached the top. They gasped. Despite the dim moonlight the room was lit in, the room, they saw, was filled with countless of dolls. A girl and a boy, hand in hand stood waiting for them. They laughed, beckoning no one in particular and only with the bark of a dog answering it. Their silhouette cast no shadow in the moonlight. A time to change they said. A time to reunite, children replied. The girl and boy disappeared, leaving nothing but the remains of decomposed bones and rusted steel chains.

The next morning the adults aroused from their deep slumber. A song, some said, a beautiful voice. Others claimed it had been a musical box, but the secret of the house remains untold. The two children were never seen again.

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Property of LunaWingz