?
?Aussie?
Guest
For a story about human experiments.
They didn’t know, they would never know. The poor souls were prisoners in their own house. With bars and locks across the windows and doors no one really knew what happened in there. But there were stories.
Sometimes in the dead silence of the night you might hear the shuffle of feet upon a crisp concrete floor. Sometimes in the middle of the day you might see a blank face, as pale as the moon, peer out from behind a drawn curtain only to be snatched back into the gloom moments later.
Zebadiah, the boy next door, tells me it’s a mad house.
He grins wickedly, his eyes flicker wildly like stunning emeralds cast upon the bare neck of a Russian princess, as he tells me that if I don’t be careful I would be next. I let out a whimsical laugh because I know he’s only joking. There are some stories though that makes your whole body shudder because it’s too horrible to even consider such torture.
Like the ones my friend Sandy tells Zeb and I as we pass the house on our way home from school. An eerie face stares out at us for a moment before disappearing back into the darkness’ uncertainties.
She says that their arms and legs and any other limbs thinkable were sliced off and attached to “normal” people who supposedly needed them more. A gasp escaped my mouth and my shaking hand gripped Zeb’s forearm in fright.
“What?” She asked, as if we were stupid. “How else do you think Ms Bullstrode got her new hand?”
The look of horror on my face intensified as I recalled seeing the new flesh.
They didn’t know, they would never know. The poor souls were prisoners in their own house. With bars and locks across the windows and doors no one really knew what happened in there. But there were stories.
Sometimes in the dead silence of the night you might hear the shuffle of feet upon a crisp concrete floor. Sometimes in the middle of the day you might see a blank face, as pale as the moon, peer out from behind a drawn curtain only to be snatched back into the gloom moments later.
Zebadiah, the boy next door, tells me it’s a mad house.
He grins wickedly, his eyes flicker wildly like stunning emeralds cast upon the bare neck of a Russian princess, as he tells me that if I don’t be careful I would be next. I let out a whimsical laugh because I know he’s only joking. There are some stories though that makes your whole body shudder because it’s too horrible to even consider such torture.
Like the ones my friend Sandy tells Zeb and I as we pass the house on our way home from school. An eerie face stares out at us for a moment before disappearing back into the darkness’ uncertainties.
She says that their arms and legs and any other limbs thinkable were sliced off and attached to “normal” people who supposedly needed them more. A gasp escaped my mouth and my shaking hand gripped Zeb’s forearm in fright.
“What?” She asked, as if we were stupid. “How else do you think Ms Bullstrode got her new hand?”
The look of horror on my face intensified as I recalled seeing the new flesh.