But just beyond that black and spiked fence stood a solitary man in a black suit, shades, and tan trenchcoat, staring intently at the dark dwelling.
***
After observing the old, tall house for a time, Agent Johnson moved to the rusty gate. As a car passed by on the street behind him, he briefly wondered if anyone would bother to call him in for trespassing on the property. Johnson quickly remembered that he had a search warrant, despite the fact that no one lived at the old house.
As he unlocked the swinging gate, he contemplated the events that had led up to his investigation of the house itself.
First, the neighbors had been complaining for some time that noises were originating from the house and smoke came from the fireplace. The police believed that homeless people had been living there, and once launched a raid. They found no signs of recent activity anywhere in the building.
Second, two paranoid locals had recently been attempting to get the papers to access the house for a night. These two believed fully in the supernatural, according to their files, and obviously believed something was in Greyston Place.
Third, after some research, Team 13 had discovered that an alleged murder had taken place inside the house 100 years ago. No body was found, but the accused murderer (a former owner of the house) had been convicted and sentenced to death. After that, the house was unoccupied as no one seemed willing to buy it for “reasons unmentioned” after inspecting the house.
So it had sat vacant for years. And now Agent Johnson was going to disturb it once again.
His first footstep seemed to disturb something. The entire atmosphere had changed, and things felt nothing like the regular semi-suburban neighborhood outside this lot.
Agent Johnson strolled on, undeterred. The gate naturally swung shut once again behind him. Johnson then felt trapped; the iron fence seemed to rise higher from the ground, and the gate now seemed as though it would never budge again. He passed some wild shrubbery and a deteriorating trellis. Something seemed to be watching the agent from the overgrown bushes.
Johnson ignored these paranoid thoughts and pressed on to the house. When he reached the door, he knocked twice with some force. Suddenly a curtain in the window seemed to fall. Johnson rapidly drew his Berreta and cocked it.
Johnson took a calming breath and uncocked his weapon. He holstered it and knocked again twice. When there was no response, he slammed against the door, using his martial arts training to make as little noise as possible. Johnson didn’t have time to search for another entrance. The ancient door’s lock easily broke, and the oak doors swung open.
As the agent stepped inside, he noticed the covered furniture and the thick layers of dust on everything. “I am Special Agent Mark Johnson of the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” Johnson lied aloud to anyone that might be in the house. He wasn’t FBI, but he needed an official cover and he had a fake FBI ID. “If anyone is in this house, please report to this room immediately.”
The agent heard no response. After a few seconds of silence, Johnson pulled his silver flashlight out of his trenchcoat pocket and turned it on. If anything was there, he would need a light to see it. He then tapped a tiny button on his shades that activated the Bureau-issue Kirilian detector hidden within them. If anything supernatural was there, he would need this detector to see it.
Johnson slowly walked through the living room and into the main hall. A large table with several dusty dining chairs occupied this room along with two suits of armor and an empty fireplace.
The agent looked around, pointing his flashlight in all directions. In one corner of the room, he noticed something slowly dripping from the ceiling.
He examined closely with his flashlight and discovered that the small pool it created on the floor was blood. That meant something was bleeding in the room above him. Bleeding a lot.
Johnson raced to the staircase and up to old stairs. When he reached the top, he spun around and tried to locate the room. Then he noticed something at the bottom of the stairs.
He focused his Kirilian shades on the figure. The reading was black, which meant that the figure was . . .
The agent blacked out and collapsed at the top of the stairs.
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