A grim moon shone on the elongated house. The silver rose bush surrounded it like a prison wall.
Rumours had it there had been pain, there had been an unspeakable terror in it.
A pale young man walked around it, taking tiny steps. He hesitated.
He then stretched his trembling hand and picked up a silver rose: this unique token was to be the sign he had been there, his friends would admire him in the end.
But as he snapped the thorny stalk a drop of blood fell from his nervous hand.
On the black ground, it turned into a green seething snake hissing with rage.
The youth stood there bewitched.
He wanted to see more, he wanted to know.
The elongated glen lay still like a womb in the cool darkness.
He did not move, he did not run. He forgot about his friends and all about himself.
He dropped the silver rose.
He found his way into the house where owls and wild cats made their homes.
He nestled into the furthest corner, in the western wing,
where the light of the moon flickered like a candle flame in the wind, till he lost track of time.
He never went back. He became a loner, a guest in the evil house.
There, startling truths hid in the nightmares that visited him in his numb hours.
One night he heard a knock on the door. He shuddered and was chilled to the core.
Yet, he wanted to know.
As he opened, a robed figure, shrouded in darkness, jumped through the door.
He stabbed the youth in the ribs, he aimed at his heart.
As the youth lay on the door, the robed man took off his hood.
In his death throes, the youth shivered, as he stared back at the man with dilated eyes.
His own face stared back at him with vacant eyes: his own self and nobody else had taken his life!
