Mandi
New member
This is a short story i've be working on for awhile. I'm bored, so I decided to post it.
The Mourning House
Down a dusty dirt road there is a house, once magnificent and grand, now lonely and vacant. Inside this house lived two little girls, Gracie and Anna. Anna, the eldest, had beautiful long blond hair, and eyes as blue as the ocean. She was always seen with a smile and a mischievous twinkle in her eye. Gracie was a small child; she had light brown hair, and hazel eyes. The girls were very active, they loved to play and run. During the winter months, they would race up the adjoining marble stairwells in their home, then slide down the polished oak banisters. Sometimes they would sit in their father's study, nestled in leather chairs next to the fireplace, surrounded by the smell of books and their fathers’ pipe tobacco, reading the adventures of Mark Twain. Other times the girls would help their mother in the kitchen, usually ending up covered in flour from head to toe. At night, after their mother and father tucked them into the bed they shared, they would lay awake talking well into the night of the stories they had read that day. On a warm night, they could be found perched next to an open window, staring at the stars.
In the spring and summer they would play outside in the garden, their colorful playground of flowers. In the middle of the garden was a water fountain, and the sound of water would be the music to which the girls would dance to in the balmy afternoons. But out of the gate, and down the path was their favorite place to play, the girls secret Eden. It was a little grove, with a pond where they would swim. Often the girls would lie on their backs and look up through the tangled masses of branches and leaves at the clouds above, and drift away to a dream place where they would stay for hours at a time, awaking in time to race down the path home for supper.
One day, Gracie and Anna ran down the path to their hiding place, but by nightfall did not return. In a panic, their father summoned the police. The grounds were searched high and low, but no trace was found, except for a necklace engraved with Anna’s name, covered in blood. The investigation was inconclusive; there was no evidence to charge anyone so the investigation was closed. The parents, grief-stricken withdrew into the abscesses of their home, become more ascetic with each passing year. The mother became distant, and eventually quit talking all together. To keep himself busy, the father threw himself into his work and became an alcoholic. Visitors came with their condolences, but were promptly turned away; the parents wanted nothing to do with the outside world.
Eventually both passed on; many say they died of broken hearts. The house was never resold; a broken realty sign still hangs in the lawn, creaking in the wind. The house fell into disrepair, the once majestic garden was overtaken by weeds, the well-kept grass grew high over the step stones, and the glass encrusted walls grew dim by years of collecting dust. Empty is the house where wonderful and tragic times were spent. The house stands barren and desolate, waiting to be explored, waiting to tell the story of its occupants. On a warm summer day it has been said that you can hear children’s laughter echo throughout the grounds, the laughter of the lost little girls Gracie and Anna.
In the spring and summer they would play outside in the garden, their colorful playground of flowers. In the middle of the garden was a water fountain, and the sound of water would be the music to which the girls would dance to in the balmy afternoons. But out of the gate, and down the path was their favorite place to play, the girls secret Eden. It was a little grove, with a pond where they would swim. Often the girls would lie on their backs and look up through the tangled masses of branches and leaves at the clouds above, and drift away to a dream place where they would stay for hours at a time, awaking in time to race down the path home for supper.
One day, Gracie and Anna ran down the path to their hiding place, but by nightfall did not return. In a panic, their father summoned the police. The grounds were searched high and low, but no trace was found, except for a necklace engraved with Anna’s name, covered in blood. The investigation was inconclusive; there was no evidence to charge anyone so the investigation was closed. The parents, grief-stricken withdrew into the abscesses of their home, become more ascetic with each passing year. The mother became distant, and eventually quit talking all together. To keep himself busy, the father threw himself into his work and became an alcoholic. Visitors came with their condolences, but were promptly turned away; the parents wanted nothing to do with the outside world.
Eventually both passed on; many say they died of broken hearts. The house was never resold; a broken realty sign still hangs in the lawn, creaking in the wind. The house fell into disrepair, the once majestic garden was overtaken by weeds, the well-kept grass grew high over the step stones, and the glass encrusted walls grew dim by years of collecting dust. Empty is the house where wonderful and tragic times were spent. The house stands barren and desolate, waiting to be explored, waiting to tell the story of its occupants. On a warm summer day it has been said that you can hear children’s laughter echo throughout the grounds, the laughter of the lost little girls Gracie and Anna.
issed:
