Haunted House

In the heart of our neighborhood stood the infamous Witch Mansion, a house that sent shivers down our spines with its eerie presence. Its exterior was a testament to neglect, with overgrown grass in the front yard and a rickety wooden fence shielding the secrets of the backyard. The walls bore the scars of time, cracked and grimy, with nature reclaiming its territory through small trees poking through the crevices. Its windows and doors remained tightly shut, sealing off the mysteries within.

Three trees, guardians of the mansion, dominated the front yard. A mighty mango tree cast a looming shadow over the house, its branches heavy with fruit. The house itself seemed to cower beneath the darkness of the mango's embrace. Nearby, a guava and an orange tree added to the eerie atmosphere, their presence enhancing the mansion's sinister aura.

Legend whispered of an old woman, rumored to be a witch, who dwelled within the mansion, hence its chilling nickname. During the day, the house stood silent and deserted, but at night, a solitary light flickered from the second-floor window, casting eerie shadows on the surrounding landscape.

Despite its foreboding reputation, my friends and I often gathered near the mansion after school, finding courage in our numbers. Fear seemed to lose its grip on us when we were together. We would play nearby, sometimes daring to test fate by tossing stones at the mango tree, hoping for a reward of fruit. Surprisingly, no one ever emerged to chase us away, as if the mansion itself had accepted our presence or had more pressing concerns than a group of mischievous children.

One day, as we stood gazing at the mansion, I felt a surge of daring. Saturday, a day of freedom for us kids, had arrived. With no school to bind us, we indulged in our favorite pastime: football. Laughter filled the air as we kicked the ball around, reveling in the joy of our youth.

But then, disaster struck. My powerful kick sent the ball flying over the fence and crashing into the mansion's front door, causing it to swing open with a resounding thud. Panic surged through me as my friends turned accusing eyes in my direction, demanding that I retrieve the ball. Despite my trembling limbs and racing heart, I knew I had to face my fear and venture into the unknown depths of the mansion.

As I approached the mansion, a chill ran down my spine, and I felt a wave of apprehension wash over me. Yet, propelled by a sense of responsibility, I pushed forward, determined to retrieve the ball and return to safety. Little did I know that my journey into the mansion would lead me to encounter something beyond my wildest imagination.

Inside, the air was thick with musty decay, and the faint light filtering through the walls cast eerie shadows. I searched for the ball, my senses on high alert, when I heard a noise emanating from the kitchen. My heart pounding, I turned to see a boy about my age holding the ball. His presence startled me, but he seemed friendly enough as he offered me the ball.

After a brief exchange, I prepared to leave, but as I turned to bid farewell, the boy had vanished into thin air. Bewildered, I hurried out of the mansion, relieved to rejoin my friends outside. Yet, my encounter with the mysterious boy lingered in my thoughts, leaving me with more questions than answers.

That night, as I lay in bed, a feverish nightmare gripped me, and I screamed for my father. As he comforted me, I recounted my encounter with the boy named John, unaware of the chilling revelation that awaited me in the light of day.

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