I told her not to go. I warned her it was a bad idea, but she refused to listen, assuring me she'd be safe. It's been a day since she left with her friends, and there's still no word from her. Worry gnawed at me, and I knew it was time to take matters into my own hands. I hopped into my Mercury Bobcat and drove, the familiar rumble of the engine failing to calm my nerves.

I never thought I'd revisit the Chandler household, not after the incident. The memory of it haunted me—not just because I lost a past friend, but because the circumstances surrounding it never sat right with me. Heather’s suicide had always felt off. The story I was told played over and over in my mind, and it never made sense. Heather was never much of a writer, nor was she as verbose as her suicide letter would lead you to believe. Why would someone like her write such a Shakespearean poem? Maybe I just couldn't come to terms with her death. Maybe I refused to accept that the girl I had once wished would disappear—never to hurt me again—had died. The handwriting matched, according to the cops, so I guess I'm just being crazy. Yet, despite their assurances, a nagging doubt lingered. Something about the whole situation felt wrong, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to Heather’s death than met the eye.

Now I pull in front of the dilapidated home, parking my car before taking a deep breath and exiting the comfort of my vehicle. After Heather's death, her parents up and left, abandoning the colossal home. Now, it acts as a breeding ground for a cacophony of stories claiming Heather's ghost roams the halls at night. And, of course, stories of a haunted house lead to idiotic teens trying to “survive the night.” My ex was one of those dumbasses to visit. She begged me to come with her last night, insisting it would be fun since it was just her and her friends. I told her it was disrespectful and unsafe, but she wouldn't drop it. Insults were thrown, and one thing led to another, and we broke up. It shouldn't be my problem. I shouldn't care about finding her, but I kinda blame myself. If I had been there with her, I might have been able to help her and her friends. But now they're all missing. 

I stare at the house, its once grand facade now crumbling and overgrown, a silent testament to the tragedy that happened within its walls. I feel a knot of dread tightening in my stomach as I contemplate what might have happened to her and her friends in that eerie place. I shouldn't have to be here, but the thought of her being in danger because I wasn't there to stop her gnaws at me. So here I am, about to step into a nightmare, hoping I’m not too late.

I dug through the trunk of my car for a flashlight, pulling out my dad's large aluminum-bodied one he had during his time in the army. It felt reassuringly solid in my hand as I turned toward the house. Around the home stretched a tall, seven-foot wrought iron fence, a formidable barrier. The metal gate in the driveway was locked, leaving me with no other choice but to scale the fence. I did just that, tossing my flashlight over before climbing slowly and carefully. With a final push, I jumped off the top and landed on the dying grass below. The crunch of the grass under my feet was like a natural warning, every step acting as a reminder that I shouldn't be here.

I finally reached the front door, standing completely still for a few moments, gathering my courage before attempting to open it. As expected, the door was locked, so I would need to find another way in. After peering around the front of the home, I noticed a shattered window leading to the kitchen. I approached it with caution, carefully navigating the rogue thorn bushes and shrubbery that had taken root in the soil beneath the window. Once I reached the window, I grabbed the sill and hoisted myself inside with relative ease.

Inside, the air was thick with dust and the smell of decay, a stark contrast to the cool night air outside. The kitchen was a mess, with broken dishes and broken beer bottles littering the floor. I swung the flashlight beam around, illuminating the remnants of what was once a lively home. I took a deep breath, preparing myself for what could be ahead, and began to make my way through the house, each step echoing eerily in the silence. The memories of Heather and the tragic events that unfolded here swirled in my mind, making the atmosphere even more oppressive. I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being watched, but I pushed forward, determined to find any sign of where she could have gone.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Ruby! Are you here?” I shouted as I slowly traversed the kitchen and into the living room. “RUBY!” I yelled louder, but there was no response. It didn't seem like she or her friends were still there, but I continued to look around for any clue of their whereabouts. I moved the flashlight around the living room, revealing how all the furniture was torn up and thrown around aimlessly as if a giant infant had had a tantrum moments prior.

I looked around more, brushing through cobwebs and stepping over shattered glass, when something caught my eye. I bent down to pick up a shiny black and white button. The button had no dust or debris on it; it had to have been left here recently. How do you leave this behind without noticing? Perhaps there was a struggle. As soon as that thought crossed my mind, my heart sank. I pictured some type of fight breaking out, which could have ended violently, causing Ruby's disappearance. I grew more nervous as I ran scenarios in my head about what could have happened. 

On top of that, I couldn't help but recognize this button. I knew I had seen it before, but I couldn't figure out where. Shaking my head, I put the button in my pocket and continued to search for more clues. The sense of urgency increased with each step I took. I moved deeper into the house, my flashlight revealing more signs of chaos—overturned chairs, a broken picture frame, and scuff marks on the floor. As I walked through the dark corridors, I called out Ruby’s name again, hoping for a response. The house felt like a maze, each room a new challenge, filled with shadows and eerie silence. I opened the doors cautiously, half-expecting to find something—someone—hiding behind them.

I finally finished checking the main floor of the home, so it was time to go upstairs. The staircase itself was grand, even in its run-down state, so as I slowly ascended, I cautiously took each step, fearing the floor below me might collapse. I finally reached the top of the stairs, and Heather's old bedroom immediately caught my eye. The door to the room was torn off its hinges, and upon entering the room, I noticed there was writing all over the walls.

I read some of the messages. They were all from different students, expressing their discourse and hatred of Heather. The disgruntled rhetoric completely covered the walls, each message a testament to the torment Heather must have caused. As I continued reading, I saw Ruby had written her own message and signed it.

 "Perfect," I said under my breath. Now I knew she had made it here safely, at least. The thought gave me a small sense of relief amidst the growing tension.

Heather's room was in shambles, with remnants of her life scattered across the floor. Old photographs, broken trinkets, and torn pages from notebooks were strewn about, creating a chaotic mosaic of her past. I moved the flashlight around, illuminating the haunting evidence of her life cut short. The air was thick with a sense of sorrow and anger, and I couldn't shake the feeling that the walls themselves were watching me.

I approached the writing Ruby had left, hoping to glean more information. She simply wrote, “Fuck you Slut”. Her message was brief, but it indicated that she had been here recently. I scanned the rest of the room, looking for any other signs of her presence. There were no footprints or other disturbances, which made me wonder if she had left in a hurry.

“Are you fucking kidding me? More assholes here to destroy my shit!” a female voice echoed through the halls, coming from the study. Her tone was exacerbated yet it shook me to my core. I wasn't alone in this house, and worse, it was her of all people. “It couldn't be, it can't be,” I muttered to myself, the sentence swirling around in my head, the only possible thing my mind could conjure up at this horrifying moment.

I had to be sure that it was her, so I slowly moved around the corner, my hands completely shaking, causing the light to tremble sporadically. The anticipation gnawed at me, each step feeling heavier than the last. My breath caught in my throat as I approached the source of the voice. Once I peered around the corner, my biggest fear at that moment was realized. There she was, standing in the dimly lit study, her eyes filled with a mix of anger and frustration until she noticed it was me.