It was seventy five years old according to the estate agent, " a real steal".
My parents thought it was great.
We moved in a month later.
While we were redecorating the hallway we noticed something weird.
You could only see it when the wallpaper was gone.
The plaster on one side was fresh and new, far more recent than the rest.
It looked like there had been a doorway there.
My parents decided to knock part of it down to see if there was decent storage space or
even another room.
The wall took ages to break, it turned out to be heavily reinforced.
There was a room inside it looked like an old office.
We went in armed with torches and disposable dust masks.
Good thing too, the air was practically grey and every surface was caked in dust, mould and god
knows what else.
The paper strewn about was too faded to be legible and crumpled to the touch.
While my parents were busy trying to find some kind of document that would tell them
exactly what this room had been used for or at least something valuable
I went further in, through a doorway I'd spotted beside a bookcase.
Another room we hadn't know about!
The walls were lined with bookcases and overflowing with faded novels.
At the furthest end I saw four portraits on the walls.
They were hyperrealistic, you know, the ones where they eyes seem to follow you.
Whoever painted these must not have liked the people, their faces were hideous.
I swear I saw them breathe but It must have been my flickering torch, the batteries were old.
Grabbing a random book from one of the shelves I went out to rejoin my parents.
They'd apparently found something about the first owners.
Leaving the room was uneventful as were the next few days.
The book I'd taken was too mouldy to read so I binned it only to find it back on my bookshelf
the next morning, my parents denied doing anything.
It was weird but I reckoned it was them anyway.
That was, until last night.
I woke up early in the morning to see one of the people from the portraits walking out of my room.
Later in the morning (when it was light outside) I went downstairs for breakfast.
I assumed that earlier on was just a weird dream.
Three of the portrait people were sitting calmly at the table with my parents.
Well, what was left of my parents.
Their heads took up the remaining two seats.
The didn't seem to notice me, too busy eating plates of red meat.
I didn't want to think about where it came from.
I backed away slowly, planning to go check the portraits again, this had to be a dream.
It had to be.
I crept into the old room just in time to duck down as the fourth portrait thing passed by.
It was holding a shirt of mine, sniffing intently at it then lifting its' head to sniff around.
I crawled into the book room, making as little noise as I possibly could.
The portrait frames were on hinges, the background behind that I thought had been just
a nice continuous setting was yet another room.
The air coming from there smelt stale and rotten.
I heard shuffling behind me and, with nowhere else to go, I ducked into the room and hid
behind a draped curtain right at the back.
Just in time as well, all four of the portrait people came into the room.
They closed the doors to their respective windows and locked them from the inside.
I realised I was trapped.
Then they all turned to look at me, face stained with my parent's blood.
This is the end.
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