The wind blew in westward, pushing an old rusty soda can across the grey dirt road that led to the place most avoided; unfortunately the place I was headed to. This dwelling was avoided for a reason, an unsettling energy about the place, causing my skin to tighten, my heartbeat to quicken, my breathing labored, almost sending me into hysteria. The only thing that kept me sane was my understanding of what happened here; the thing that happened years ago.

Stopping at the gate covered in green vine that stood askew, I couldn't help but notice that I was shaking. This place...wasn't right. I gazed at the rusty, fragile gate, afraid to push it open - fearing it would collapse, disturbing the eerie silence that seemed to oddly soothe me as well as haunt me. Peering through the gates I got a look at the farm, not particularly impressive, but definitely a large farm. The house, rather massive, was of a bleak black - no, once black, years of weather damage made it the sickening grey I was now seeing.

Not faltering a moment longer, I pushed the gate open, it emitting the sound's I'd expected, but nevertheless surprised by: squeaking and groaning joints that cried out. There was something quaint about the ambience here - the surrounding air. It felt thick...almost unnatural; it...frightened me, almost made me turn around screaming and running back to my black Crown Victoria...but, the explorer in me wanted to know more about this place...wanted to know if she was here.


Detective Ramsy entered the small room, eyes instantly locking with the only inhabitant other than the guard at the door.

"I've got it from here, thanks," Ramsy told the guard, still gazing at the man at the table. The guard was hesitant, worrying the inmate would get out of control - although he never had, the guard was well aware of why the man was in prison and his mind never could escape the nightmare of knowing.

"Are you sure...I mean-"

"I'll be fine. Thanks," The Detective said, waving the guard out of the room. The man nodded and exited the room, closing the large steel door with a shuddering boom. He had not yet raised his head from the table, handcuffs binding his hands, his legs to the chair; Ramsy felt confident that he was in no immediate danger - so confident, in fact, he would feel safe even if the inmate was free of those bindings.

Stepping forward, pulling out a chair and sitting down, he pulled out his suitcase, laying it on the table. As he did so, he never took his gaze off of the man, hoping he'd look up to him; but he only received the dirty blonde locks that seemed to drape on the skull of the man. Opening his suitcase, fetching the man's file, (he found it instantly for he was most fascinated by the man across from him) and visited the file most frequently opened.

"Withershire, Mark," Detective Ramsy said dully, placing his glasses on and browsing the file that he knew all too well. "I presume that would be your name,"

"Ah, yes sir, that name would belong to me, ergo, bringing you to the obvious conclusion that I am the person you seek conversation," Mark said in a deep, raspy, haunting voice, never lifting his head from the table. The tone had a deep rooted insanity to it, The tongue in which Ramsy knew had spoken sickening things before.

"Yes..."


The porch was in awful shape; I was a bit apprehensive to step upon it. Releasing an exhale of relief as I stepped on the porch, I glanced over to the far left side of the landing, noticing a worn out wooden rocking chair had a rather new looking cloth draped on it. I paid it no mind, using my key to unlock the police installed locks to the doors to keep others out. I wish I could say I didn't vomit when the door opened, but I'm afraid I can't fool you nor myself. As if fresh off a carnival ride, I heaved up my lunch on the porch floor as soon as the rush of nauseating stench came from the house. The house smelled of the death, the dried blood still setting off an odor.

Finally pulling myself together, I pulled out my flashlight and entered the house. It was broad daylight, but the windows were boarded up on this level of the house. I walked slowly through the living room, the first room in the house from the front door, shining the flashlight on objects that had not seen light in years. The couches were covered in an inch of dust, as well as the tables and an old small Christmas tree...


"Christmas was her favorite holiday so we always kept the tree up. Hoping it would give us inspiration."

"Inspiration?"

"Yes...for the both of us, my brother and myself," Mark said, twisting his handcuffs idly, thinking back.

"I'm aware that your brother Terry Withershire was recently murdered in Durham Prison," Ramsy said, flipping throughout the file. "I'm sure that has had an effect on you." Silence filled the room as it tended to when Mark Withershire thought.

"Yes...it has. From word of mouth I have heard that he bit a chunk of flesh from a fellow inmate's neck, killing him...," He said in his raspy voice. Ramsy couldn't help but notice the hint of satisfaction in the man's voice.

'Was he proud his brother had done what he had done?'

"Yes, they say the murdered inmate had a homosexual relationship with another inmate. And they claim he killed your brother in revenge of his lover."

"That seems to be the case."


The hallway was too narrow, too dark. I needed more than just this flashlight, more like the light from God. Taking a deep breath, I stepped slowly and carefully, glancing at the family pictures that hung from the walls, one of which caught my attention. There was a little girl, curly blonde hair, pouty lips, a beautiful black and white dress, and mysterious grey eyes. She was sitting on a wooden rocking chair... She had to be her. She had to be.


"Molly was our sister, our best friend. My brother and I looked after her as if she was a sick puppy, in some ways she was."

"Your sister...your baby sister?" Detective Rasmy asked, taking his glasses from his face. Mark nodded slowly.

"The baby. Poor thing...blind and deaf. Funny thing, I never pitied her back then, but I do now...am I truly getting old? But...I think that's why we were so tight, us three; my brother and myself didn't treat her differently and even had learned the mouthful of soundless communication she expressed; we only understood her, our mother and father never cared enough; all they wanted to happen was for her to be normal...which...started the experiments."


Moving on, I walked to the end of the hallway, a staircase that lay out before me and a hallway on my left as well as another on my right - a fork in the road of sorts. I took the left, seeing it as a good choice on the count of me being left handed.


Mark smiled, peering through his long dirty blonde hair, observing the detective's movements. His smile was wide - horrifying, his teeth unnaturally perfect. Ramsy caught the smile, but the eyes were yet to be seen.

"May I ask what is so humorous?"

"I'm sorry Detective. I was just noticing your inability to use your right arm better than your right," Ramsy eyed him suspiciously.

"Yes...I'm left-handed," The detective said slowly, sliding a file into his suitcase. Mark began to chuckle.

"Ah...yes. Left-handed. I fondly remember the left-handed - always was interesting figuring out how they worked...simply enjoyed slicing them open," He said, his voice at an almost whisper, the words slipping out of his mouth like water. "We wanted to know why there were right-handed persons as well as left-handed persons...Molly was left-handed..." Paying the comments about left-handed people no mind, Ramsy instantly got anxious at the mention of Molly once again.

"Molly was left handed?"

"Oh yes...she was special all over."