Excursion

--

Dust lifted from the floor as Oliver walked up to the crumbling, vine-overrun, two-storey house’s front door. The windows on the first and second floor were either broken, with only a few shards left in the pane, or so dirty that there was no possible way anyone could see through the glass. Beside the door, the silver metal of number 76 was starting to turn puke green in some places, rusting in others.

As Oliver inhaled, the heavy dust stung the back of his throat, but that didn’t prevent him from going up and kicking open the barely hinged door with enough force that it fell through what was left of the moldy frame. It landed with an ear-splitting thud that made the three fourteen-year-old friends cringe and the dust on the floorboards come up.

Standing with one foot on the farthest step, which would probably collapse if he put all his weight onto it, was Thomas, who couldn’t help but turn and stare into the darkness behind him. Melvin, with a few quick swipes at the dust on his Pink Floyd t-shirt, peered in through the door-less frame from behind Oliver, whose dark hair was covered in soot, to see what lay inside.

Feeling there was nothing more to do outside the dreadfully beat-up and decaying house, Oliver stepped inside. There was an almost inaudible gasp from Thomas, whose eyes were wide behind his horn-rimmed glasses.

“Stop being a wuss, Thomas,” whispered Melvin before stepping forward. The wood beams groaned beneath his feet as if the were singing a dejected song. He jumped lightly on the beams in front of Thomas, proving they were safe. “Not dead yet,” he said, following Oliver through the entranceway. Thomas, not wanting to be alone, trailed so quickly after that the wood barely had enough time to squeak.

The room they entered was nothing extraordinary. The walls were lined with peeling, paled yellow wallpaper. Grimy frames that held no pictures barely hung onto their nails, and the rug was so dusty that it could hardly be distinguished from the floor itself. Dust hung in the air with such an immense thickness that they could almost see it in the darkness.

A single, faded green armchair with a cracked leg stood to the right against the wall. Beside it was a small wooden table; it held a rectangular mirror that could barely reflect any longer. Its wood frame was black in places, like it had been burned. Two yellowed candles, one taller than the other, were fixed to the table because of the melted wax that had fallen from the wick, cementing the candles in place.

Stairs to the left looked too hazardous to climb, for some of the actual steps were missing, allowing Melvin, who ventured closer, to see that there was possibly a basement below.

“Who wants to try going up the non-existent stairs first?” Melvin asked jokingly. He looked at Thomas, who was cleaning his glasses. With a smirk, Melvin added, “I nominate Thomas. What say you, Oliver?”

Oliver glanced at him quickly, a stern look on his face. He ran a finger down the wall, seeing that there was a thick coating of grime. “Stop playing around, Melvin. And stop scaring the crap out of Thomas.”

“Look, if he didn’t want to come,” Melvin said as he took a few steps backward, going closer to toward a side door, “then its his fault, but I—”

A moment before the floorboards fell away to nothing beneath Melvin’s feet there had been the slightest creak, as if it were playing a sick joke on him by only giving half a warning. As a loud snapping of wood sounded, dust flew into air like a cloud of smoke.

Melvin cried out in surprise and fear as his body fell into the gloom. The old wood where there was now a gaping hole was splintered. Oliver and Thomas ran over to the hole, but cautiously, not wanting the same fate.

“Melvin, are you alright?” Oliver asked hurriedly. He peered over but couldn’t see anything.

There was a moan followed by, “Not dead yet!”

--

A/N: I hope you enjoyed this one-shot story! It was written for my Narrative Techniques class, but I felt it was written well enough to be put on the site. Tell me what you think! Thanks! Sara