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Long ago when legends were only just stories, there was a boy, a tanned skin and ocean eyed boy who lived alone; a boy with nothing but the cries of the animals who wept beyond his home. This boy, lonesome and uncaring, knew that the voices followed him, they followed him simultaneously with their ghastly breathes and timid structures. With every step the boy took, a crooked shadow would lurk behind him, eerily waiting for a chance to strike him down. Though he was trapped within the walls of his home. In which a dark ooze would squeeze out of its cracks and beckon him to come near, begging to swallow whatever was in its path and consume the life which lives within its breaches.
Where the home kept the boy safely inside its dungeons of fears. He lies there on the cold and hard ground, memories flowing through his mind like a river. Grasping onto himself, holding himself for warmth, for that the home kept him cold and frozen in place like that of snow. The tips of his fingers were blue and purple as his body was covered in goosebumps and frost. Blood rushed to his cheekbones and took control over his fragile body. The little voice he owned croaked every time he tried to speak, which only grew more difficult as time passed. The doors of the home began opening and closing, making an eerie screech as it dragged across the floor. The house was angry and scared, filled with emotions and lifelike reactions. It too began to weep, weep like the little boy once has and began drowning its insides with its oozy liquids. The boy struggled as the house continued to fill up with its tears. But his tiredness was allowing him to slack, so his arms grew weak with every paddle and every ounce of strength he had withered away. He began to sink down to the wooden floors, watching the pictures frames float around him, the colors peeking out of the portraits and flowing towards him. He was gonna die. Die alone in this endless mess, a continuation of the weeping home.
Though that couldn’t be it, not all of it that is, there was still a chance or at least a risk he could take. Maybe with some luck, he can make it through and reach the other end. Finding what he was looking for and accomplishing the sheer pain he’s been facing. But sadly we know that can’t be true, not in our reality. Because somewhere deep in the woods stands an old cabin. A cabin that’s broken down and rotting away from existence. But looking closer and viewing the insides of the cabin we find ourselves a young, frozen, and very dead boy. Sadly hyperthermia reached him before any help could come and the house with its crooked position waits patiently for its next victim. For it is known as the house of no tomorrow.