The Bearded One had already visited. 
Once, it could have been a beauty and the now missing 
After leaving Ormskirk we headed north and found the lonely house close to a school, but otherwise on a one-house street camouflaged by dense trees and bushes.
‘There’s little sense in trying to snap this one from the road’, I mentioned to
this one does not want to be photographed, I thought, scratching my head in irritation.
‘The House of Weird Warnings’ had a reputation to live up to, and this was just the beginning. Strange creepy messages about knives, abuse and a room full of the number ‘13’ were all on the menu.
Perhaps I would see a ghostly apparition of the knife wielder. Occasionally you get lucky, or so I am told. I’m still waiting - just like Diana.
Wading through thick bushes and a mixture of many types of trees we spotted the house, or was it a bungalow? A single storey building confirmed just that.
The front appeared to be well sealed but a short trot between what looked like the main residence and a garage revealed a large hole, where the back door used to be.
I could visibly see this one was not going to hold vast lost wealth, Pablo Escobar’s lost doubloon’s or even a gaggle of discoloured, pink vintage cock rings. If I was to find anything then I would likely need to scramble on the filthy floor in search of scraps.
I have seen worse. That’s not grandma’s finest, but the remains of a curtain as well as the odd ornament on the fireplace plus the skeletal remains of a vacuum cleaner.
… and then I saw it and froze... Where was the knife, who was the butcher and who had been cut?
Pressing on, we continued looking for more clues and disturbing words. Despite having a heads-up my teeth were chattering and a cold mist began to descend on ‘The House of Weird Warnings’ like a thick blanket.
What thick blanket you might say? That image is perfectly fog free. It was all in my mind and the creeping mist threatened to engulf my brain suffocating any positive thoughts.
Look inside where? The red desperate scribbles were old and feint but clear in their intent, but wait, is that a wavy vertical line with a pair of balls at the bottom?
‘The Killer’ was no longer in the bathroom, I breathed a sigh of relief and exhaled sharply.
Yikes..., more words of the weirdest type. What things, and why did the writer have the time to record the story on these walls?
Did those things ‘she’ didn’t like take place on that bed? I could imagine those springs settling into my back and digging into my flesh, and yes I wouldn’t like it either.
That had to be it, the plot was beginning to unfold nicely.
The scribblings appear to be some kind of essay complete with the teachers marking written in red on side two. ‘Too ambitious’ the critical response proclaims. My fever was starting to recede, this was a distraction from the true horror all around me.
More distractions. Was this high school child the abused, the one who feared the knife, the one who liked to draw sweaty genitals? It was all getting too much for me.
What monster had taken bites out of these curtains? I could see the glowing teeth marks, of a ghoul, a lich, a wraith.
I heard nothing entering the ‘wardrobe’ room. No evil was hiding within, not even in the older sturdier model.
This poor kid was trying her best to study Physics but was being preyed on by an evil monster. Was it the undead, or her sadistic father, practicing Satanism while she wrote her stories of woe throughout the house?
It all happened 20 years ago, but this warning told a different story. Why the love-hearts? Had this victim been abused so long that the fear was turning into some type of twisted… LOVE?
Another clue; it had to be the undead. Those ravenous, intestine munching zombies were making lists of ingredients for today’s dinner. They would need to be stopped.
I walked into it before I realised. This was the dreaded ‘13’ room. Everywhere I looked, the unluckiest number ever know glared back at me threatening to doom and crush my will into small pieces. I needed to escape and fast.
I risked a close up. You can feel the intensity and dread seeping into you while viewing this image, I remember the feeling.
Isn’t is supposed to be ‘save yourselves?’
The desperate victims credibility was decreasing by the second, the wave of terror I initially experienced lifted like the suction of that battered vacuum cleaner I met earlier in one of the initial rooms.
A lapse in grammar concentration I could expect in your moments of writing desperation with ‘daddy’ closing in, but this.., well, it sounded like a big load of sweaty bollocks to me.
Was the house lived in 30 years beforehand? It would surprise me if an explorer had bought, read it while inside and dumped it.
We left the house thinking there was no knife, no ‘things he did to me’, no zombies and no feasting of livers, hearts and intestines later tonight. What an anti-climax.
If you could fucking write in English, I may have been taken in you dumbass, moronic, illiterate cretin.
The garage yielded a couple of heavily-rusted decaying wrecks.
The blue one looked like a Morris Marina, a car commonly seen on English roads during the 1970’s. I think they made them with rust out of the factory.
It’s been a while since I have seen one, and despite being hardly beloved would probably have some value even in this terrible condition.
‘The House of Weird Warnings’. If only I could find a ‘proper’ haunted house.
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