The Choices We Make
Prologue
My name is Leslie Knox.
This is my story.
--»«--
Before I begin, let me make on things,
very clear:
Once you begin to read, you can’t
go back. Ever. This isn’t a joke. Not
anymore.
What happened here is
real.
Real people got hurt.
Every choice has a
consequence.
Don’t make the same mistakes that
I did.
--» Leslie
«--
I don’t remember when I woke
up, but I think it began with the screams. Not the normal, yells
of someone whose in pain or panicked. But blood curdling
screeches that rent the night and chilled me to the core, laying
witness to unspeakable terror. Something cold traveled down my
spine, a feeling from the dark abyss of some unknown hell, and
the hairs on the back of my neck rose. I think my heart stopped
when they began, because when I woke, it thrummed in my heart
like a caged bird, struggling against it’s bondage, and
impossibly loud. I remember a bitter taste in the back of my
mouth, like bile, threatening. My stomach was mutinous, and my
mind flew back to every horror movie I’ve ever seen.
I thought the screams were bad. I thought they’d never end.
It wasn’t half as bad as the silence. As sudden as the
howls began, they stopped. I threw back the covers, my hear
beating harder and faster then a drum. It was painfully swift,
and for a second, I thought I was having a heart attack.
Ridiculous, right? But I wasn’t in an state of mind to
think clearly. I was seven. And more scared then I’ve
ever been in my entire, short, life. I was in pajamas, but
I couldn’t stop my little hands from shaking, long enough
to put something on. So I didn’t even try. I grabbed
my lamp. Yeah, I know it’s stupid. But I was scared
as hell, and it seemed like a good weapon at the time. My feet
made there way downstairs. I don’t know why it didn’t
occur to me to get my Dad. Once again, I wasn’t thinking
straight. Some how, the screams hadn’t managed to wake up
my brother. But then again, he sleeps like the dead. The
screams had come from the basement. I don’t really know how
I knew this, but I knew, that’s where they came from.
This scared me more. Why? Because I hated the basement. Maybe
it’s because Dillan -My older brother- had once told me the
Devil lived down there. I have an interesting brother, and at the
time, I had believed him. It didn’t help that it always
made weird noises, like a ‘tortured soul’ -Once
again, according to my brother- and I couldn’t manage to
make my way through the creepy room without a spider running
across my damn foot. Every. Single. Time. I opened the door.
Unlike, in all the horror movies, it didn’t creak. My Dad
had oiled it recently. Before that, you couldn’t open the
door without waking the whole damn house. The hallway dropped
down a flight of stairs. One of the steps creaks, but I could
never figure out which one. Another good reason for not going in
the basement. I was young. I was stupid. I was the idiotic
kid who goes into a dark alley and is found dead because they ere
young, stupid, and idiotic. I was to curious for my own
good. I made my way down the stairs, brick walls, crumbling
around me. It sounds stereotypical, but it was accurate. The
scent of mold and decay rushed forward, and I struggled not to
gag. But it was a third, under lying smell, that made with shiver
with fear. I could smell the blood. The perfume of death
and pain. It washed over me in waves. I think I vomited. When I
saw the body, consciousness fled me. vaguely, I remembered the
lamp, dropping from my shaking hands. Shattering on the cold,
hard floor. The ground flew to meet me, and I fell into
darkness.
--» Noteworthy «--
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