Dried spatters of I don’t know what on the walls, brown and grey stains on the stairs. What happened here? The spatters begin high, too high to be just incidental. They weren’t dried instantly, as the spatters morphed into long thin lines, no one cared whether it was cleaned or not. Walking past these stairs, you barely notice it but now, combined with the parallel but bigger stains on the stairs; it’s obvious to every eye that meets it. Luckily no one’s here to see them. At the end of the stairs, a white number one in a red square tells me I’m almost on the first floor. Beneath the number there used to be something, used to. With as much force as the stairs and wall met neglect, it’s erased, leaving a partly red partly pink or white pain for the human eye .No possible recovery of what once maybe told something about that first floor. Did it say canteen, or maybe administration? Or maybe just “first floor”?
I’ll never know, and since I can’t look past the walls, I can’t even make a proper guess. The doors are open, but I dare not walk any further, don’t want to cross the forgotten crime scene, or whatever happened up there. Every now and then, the light flickers rapidly, casting dark shadows. I wish I couldn’t see. My legs begin to sleep, but I dare not walk away, both appalled and attracted to this place. Between fear and curiosity, I’m trapped in this little corner. This little corner was the only clean spot, the only safe spot, or at least it appeared to be. As by some miracle, or by design, this corner stayed untouched. Is it because of coincidence or something else? The longer I think about it, the more I start to wonder.
Maybe someone sat here, in this exact same spot as I do now, when “it” happened. Maybe that person –or was it an object?- was “it”, maybe she exploded or something. She. I don’t know why, but something tells me “it” had to do with a she. A little girl, or maybe a young woman. You know most ghost stories have a little girl or a woman as subject? No idea why that’s the way it is, but somehow it sounds right. No not right, just appropriate for this place.
I thought it would be cold. Although summer is coming I thought it would be cold. Don’t they say almost every haunted place is colder than other places? Maybe I’m just imagining things, I don’t even know whether this place is haunted or not. Chances are “it” was just an accident, someone spilling his or her coffee, or some kids with water guns aiming at invisible things on the wall. Yes, it must be something innocent. But why can’t I believe that? Still, why did they take the effort of erasing that area underneath the number one? Something’s not right here, but what? Those spatters and stains must have something to do with it. What else happened here, causing people to shut the entire place down?
I’ll never know, and since I can’t look past the walls, I can’t even make a proper guess. The doors are open, but I dare not walk any further, don’t want to cross the forgotten crime scene, or whatever happened up there. Every now and then, the light flickers rapidly, casting dark shadows. I wish I couldn’t see. My legs begin to sleep, but I dare not walk away, both appalled and attracted to this place. Between fear and curiosity, I’m trapped in this little corner. This little corner was the only clean spot, the only safe spot, or at least it appeared to be. As by some miracle, or by design, this corner stayed untouched. Is it because of coincidence or something else? The longer I think about it, the more I start to wonder.
Maybe someone sat here, in this exact same spot as I do now, when “it” happened. Maybe that person –or was it an object?- was “it”, maybe she exploded or something. She. I don’t know why, but something tells me “it” had to do with a she. A little girl, or maybe a young woman. You know most ghost stories have a little girl or a woman as subject? No idea why that’s the way it is, but somehow it sounds right. No not right, just appropriate for this place.
I thought it would be cold. Although summer is coming I thought it would be cold. Don’t they say almost every haunted place is colder than other places? Maybe I’m just imagining things, I don’t even know whether this place is haunted or not. Chances are “it” was just an accident, someone spilling his or her coffee, or some kids with water guns aiming at invisible things on the wall. Yes, it must be something innocent. But why can’t I believe that? Still, why did they take the effort of erasing that area underneath the number one? Something’s not right here, but what? Those spatters and stains must have something to do with it. What else happened here, causing people to shut the entire place down?
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