Post by John Smith on Dec 27, 2013 13:51:55 GMT -5
Crumpled and sagging, the old building stood before him. The inn had seen so much - the walls had beared so much - and yet, it was unable to cry out in pain and moan about it's foretold secrets. The things that must have happened here are unforgivable and yet, unforgettable. The only way it could emote it's pain is by slowly decaying away, making sure it no longer existed to see anything else that may cause it even more upset. Unstable, the inn was falling apart each and every second and no one could no longer save it from it's fate.
Limping towards the door that was hanging off it's hinges, he used his old hand to push to termite food open. He couldn't really relate much to the building - although seemingly old, the man was only 8 years of age inside. His chosen form, however, had seen too much and that was still rallied in the dead shell's brain although the spirit inside had not yet lived enough to experience this first hand.
Entering, he stood still, leaning against the hallway's wall. Already breathless, his eyes scanned his dusky surroundings. Dark and dank, the air was musky and wet. The smell of blood and death filled his nostrils with dread. The 3 story high building had seen better days. All the light bulbs had been burst, glass littering the floor beneath the empty bulb sockets. The only light that lit the inn was the natural daylight and, being a winter season, it didn't last long. With the sun already starting to fade, the inn looked gloomy and strangely creepy. Silence fell.
The rickety, old staircase looked anything but safe and yet, the 60 year old still ventured up them. Each one squeaked and cried out a hallow tune. The walls were filthy and the pictures that hung on the walls were lopsided, smashed and many were covered in dry blood from past 'customers'. Sighing at the blood shed, the man walked on until he reached the landing at the top of the stairs. The path then split - left, right or straight on. No noise came from any direction but the smell to the left was significantly different than the rest. So, John went left
Limping towards the door that was hanging off it's hinges, he used his old hand to push to termite food open. He couldn't really relate much to the building - although seemingly old, the man was only 8 years of age inside. His chosen form, however, had seen too much and that was still rallied in the dead shell's brain although the spirit inside had not yet lived enough to experience this first hand.
Entering, he stood still, leaning against the hallway's wall. Already breathless, his eyes scanned his dusky surroundings. Dark and dank, the air was musky and wet. The smell of blood and death filled his nostrils with dread. The 3 story high building had seen better days. All the light bulbs had been burst, glass littering the floor beneath the empty bulb sockets. The only light that lit the inn was the natural daylight and, being a winter season, it didn't last long. With the sun already starting to fade, the inn looked gloomy and strangely creepy. Silence fell.
The rickety, old staircase looked anything but safe and yet, the 60 year old still ventured up them. Each one squeaked and cried out a hallow tune. The walls were filthy and the pictures that hung on the walls were lopsided, smashed and many were covered in dry blood from past 'customers'. Sighing at the blood shed, the man walked on until he reached the landing at the top of the stairs. The path then split - left, right or straight on. No noise came from any direction but the smell to the left was significantly different than the rest. So, John went left