What if ...

Here's how we're going to start this: I'm going to write a brief clip from a story. You will be the main character. In other words, it will be written in second person. At the end of my story clip, I will give you three choices. It is your job to vote/discuss which choice you will make. After you all agree on one, I will continue the story from there the next time I post. Here's the catch: one choice every time will be a bad choice. It won't necessarily look bad, but it may lead to the destruction of the mission/adventure. If you choose the wrong one, the story automatically ends and you have to start at the beginning again. Ultimately, your goal is to reach the happy ending and solve the mystery. Sound okay? Any questions? Here we go:

 You stand shivering in two feet of snow, gazing up at the giant house looming over you. The wind catches your hair and whips it across your face. You extract the wispy tendrils from your line of vision and tuck them back into your hood. Having lost its favorite playmate, the wind takes off with your letter instead, ripping it from your hands and dropping it into the snow. You stumble after it, scolding yourself for wearing high heels. Mom had warned you about Kansas weather, but you had forgotten about snow. You're an Arizona girl, after all. Scooping up the paper, You double check the address. Two-twenty-three South 8th St. Yes, this is the place.

It's old, Dad had written. Older than your great uncle Charles. Yeah, right, you had told him, but now you're nodding your head. The white siding is fading and falling, the red brick steps are crumbling, and the painted metal scroll work on the railing is chipping and rusting. This place is old. Older than uncle Charles' great uncle.

You cautiously place a foot on the first step. Your heel digs through the snowdrift on the stair only to discover a thin layer of ice. You slip forward and grab the railing, but it teeters under your weight. Great. You fall onto your forearms, barely saving your face from smacking the next stair. Pain shoots up your arms, but you think you'll be okay. You may have a lovely pattern of bruises on your arms, but at least you still have a face. The last shred of gratefulness you had toward you parents collapsed with the railing. You ask for a nice quiet place to stay for the Christmas Holidays, far away from the city where your troubles started, and they give you this – an ugly old house in an ugly old town. Had you not put enough emphasis on nice? They could have at least let you stay in one of the houses they had partially fixed up. This house is a killer.

“Hey, are you okay?” A young man leans over you, his hands on your shoulders, trying to help you up. You scramble to you feet.

“Yes, yes, thank you. I'm fine.” You feel your cheeks glowing red. “This house – it's um, dangerous.” You twist a strand of hair around your fingers, trying to hide your embarrassment. The amused grin on his clean-shaven face tells you that you're failing, so you bite your lip instead.

He gazes up at the house as if it's an old friend.“Yeah, this place is over a hundred years old.”

“I can't tell,” you mutter. You bend over and reach for the railing, trying to lift it back into position, but your numb, cold hands aren't of much use. It slips from your grasp and clanks against the steps. You hear the man chuckle.

“Don't worry about that. I'll come over and fix it tomorrow.” His brown eyes are twinkling. They remind you of Oren's. You had better get inside.

“Oh, no. It's okay,” you say, practically crawling up the stairs. He looks at me, his dark eyebrows furrowed in puzzlement. “Really. It's okay. You don't have to bother,” you assure him. “My parents bought this place. They'll fix it later.”

“Are you sure you don't want it fixed sooner?”

“I'm sure.” you dig through your purse, searching for your keys.

He just watches you, creeping you out. Finally he bends over and scoops something up out of the snow. “Looking for these?”

Of all the nerve... He tosses you the keys. “Thanks,” you catch them out of the air and turn your back to him.

Still he doesn't leave. “Look,” he says. “If you need anything, we live right across the street.”

We? You glance at the amazon green house across the street. Is he married? Your anxiety fades. “Thank you, but I think I'll be fine.”

He doesn't look convinced, and you're trying all your keys in the door for the second time when you remember the key you want is still in your pocket. Now you're really embarrassed. Your neighbor doesn't say a word, but you're sure he's laughing – on the inside – when you finally pull the key out of your jacket and wrench open the door. You strut inside, pretending nothing was ever wrong. 

“Uh, I guess I'll see you later?” He says as you shove the old door closed. You ignore his implied question and lock the door behind you. With a sigh, you slide to the floor. What a day.

A few short seconds later you dare to peek out the window. He's gone, and you finally feel secure. Then you remember you're in a strange dilapidated house that is probably haunted and dusty among other things. Oh well...you definitely are not driving back to Phoenix. A sudden creak and rattling of the windows sends you flying to your feet. You're not sure, but you think you might rather be outside freezing your toes off with your much too friendly neighbor. Taking a few deep breaths, you...

A. Fly out the door and catch up with your neighbor. Maybe he'll check the house for you.

B. Ignore the sound. It's probably just the wind. 

C. Investigate the sound. It's probably nothing, but you like to know for sure.

To be continued....