Into a old colonial house

Shutters gloomed slime black grime upon the large glass frame, the wooden trim seemed been worn and torn and rotting away from ages of weather. Nothing creaked more was the sound of the banging and screeching tone of the front porch swing chair. It seemed like someone or something gleamed that if it were sitting as the lone occupant of the chair. The paint on the house must have been a dark green colour. It looked horrible do to the same exposer as the window shutters. A faint musty smell arose from the deep inferno green forest next to it. Nobody really cared or even cared not too much about this strange house. A house was deepening enough for it to try not to explore it. Locals had a tale of an old man that lives there and he has so many maidens that they disappear for good and been heard ever again. Some say he plants his doom towards them by setting their rooms into a frenzy of horrors. One man claimed a maiden fell to his doom by pushing her into a room of lime that he had machine to fill the room with the deadly poison every two feet at every second of a minute. A lady said to me that a set of twins went out for the job and poisoned one to death by drinking a goblet of tainted poison with a mixture of wine. Did nasty things to corpse and made the other sister watch her sister being skinned, the lady didn't know about the sister but she said it might be terrible to know. I wondered around a bit through these dark fingers that shadow over the branches of the trees to give another look. It did seemed gloomed or evil and madness. The wind had picked up for some reason. Chilled like an icy matter of coldness. Should I take another haunting trip to this unknown house but yet the occupant was a mad serial killer. Once on a cold night trip out of the dampen rain I stumbled into an old stylish local pub. There was only a lonely old man with a deep yellow stained of tobacco juice, was running down his grayish white beard sitting near the fireplace that was smaller than a chair. Then a heard of ponderous boom of a voice. It was the pub bartender telling me "Come in my fellow." of words into the air. I sat at the bar and he told me to have a pint of whiskey on him to ease the cold wet cloth of a jacket I wore into warmth. He has heard that I was the little reporter from the big city to take in a search of this house that stood inside of a forest. I nodded very sudden and gulped the half of the whiskey down my throat. Then the bar keep topped off my glass of more whiskey and said "It was on the house."

He was a husky type of a man. Tall as a cedar tree and built like a tough work horse. As he came walking back he gave a half a bottle of scotch to the old man and brought over a full bottle of whiskey and a stein of beer. "This old man you are in search of is Jonas George Flanders. I knew him a couple of years in his very young years." Said the bar keeper. He then swallowed his huge stein in heavy gulp, offered me another top off and swigged the whole bottle down like as if it were a bottle of pure apple cider. I still sat there waiting for more of this Jonas character "Evil of Doom." Boomed out like crackling thunder clap in the sky, was the next thing that blurted out of the bar keeper. That kind of stuck to me those dreadful words of man. "Evil of Doom." I said in a very low voice. "Yes my dear young man Evil of Doom is right down that centre of that house." Said the now calm barkeep. He inhaled a now a pipe that he produced so the air turned to a bitter sweet aroma of black cherry tobacco to stale make the air and belted out a strange but twisted story of this old death maker.

There was an old lady that was truly committed working class of woman...the darn woman was brutal as a whipping from an oak tree branch. She started when she was 16 of the year of her years turned to devastation when both of her parents were killed by a robbery that went wrong. They both were crossing the ice with a buggy and a horse and when they went to town a strange robber lurked into the back and hid there till the Kenner's came back took the strike once when they were heading back. He did Mrs. Kenner by slicing her throat and had a scuffle with Mr. Kenner at the reins. Until the ice slicked towards the thin ice where a single horse or pack of wolves can go under with this condition. They were on thin ice until the ice shattered under them with all the force.

The bar keeper went back to the pub and grabbed another stein of beer and walked back.