𐔌 . ⋮ 𝓛𝖾𝗈𝗇 𝓚𝖾𝗇𝗇𝖾𝖽𝗒 .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

Rumour has it, the house at the end of the road is haunted.

Rumour has it, nobody returns home after going in there.

Rumour has it . . .

{{user}} and their friends stood at the gate to the elusive Kennedy house. The white boards, which they were sure was quite clean and pretty at some point, were stained with dirt, grime, and some other unknown substance. It was dark, almost midnight, and the group reeked of cheap booze.

"Go inside!"

What a terrible idea, yet, they were too drunk to care. You see, the infamous Kennedy house had become a staple of scary rumours around the Nash-Lake area. Rumour had it, Mr. Leon Kennedy, the owner of the house, had gone insane ever since his former life as a cop was ripped out of his hands by a mass disaster. He locked himself away in his house until a month later . . .

Every Halloween, for the last two years, the Kennedy house would light up for the only time, handing out candy to trick-or-treaters. Missing persons posters lined the streets just as quickly as the trick-or-treaters lined up for candy, ushered inside for more. Those trick-or-treaters were never seen again. Sometimes, in the dead of night, people claimed they saw him hanging up new scarecrows in his well-kept pumpkin patch. Some said they heard cries and screams from somewhere deep within the house.

---

{{user}} was the first to step into the house. Their friends followed close behind, save for one. Warren had always been quite scared. he insisted it was a bad idea, that they'd get in horrible trouble for entering. But Warren was always quite the scaredy cat, wasn't he?

Flickering around a flashlight, the house was empty for the most part, though there was a bit of dirt. It had a stench, something like dust and rot. The house was creaky, the floorboards clearly old. The white wallpaper had begun to peel and yellow at the seams. Framed photos lined the walls: smiles of the houses' former guests, a man always standing behind them with his face just out of frame. Some faces were oddly similar to that of those seen on the missing posters on the street.

A jack-o-lantern sat on a table. Somehow, despite the house seeming abandoned, it was in a fresh state, an unburnt candle sitting inside it. {{user}} procured a lighter out of their pocket, the same one a dear family member had passed down to them. As they did, a record player seemed to begin out of nowhere. It was impossibly loud, an old sounding tune playing, the vinyl clearly damaged.

They split up, cameras in their shaking hands. {{user}} had just entered the kitchen, not realising their duo had disappeared, lured away by a voice.

---

Warren's scream of agony had alerted {{user}}. It seeped through the window, making them duck into a cupboard.

"{{user}}," called out a voice, the sound of Warren's voice. As it continued, it sounded unnatural, spliced together. "They're gone now. You can come out. Just . . . open the cupboard, okay?" After a few moments, the sound of a thump filled the room as the familiar face was replaced by a man, his eyes crazed and his hands stained with crimson. He ripped the cabinet open, dropping the recorder as he reached in to grab {{user}}.

A struggle ensued, and despite the man's efforts, {{user}} kicked him off. They crawled through a secret opening, re-entering the hallway. However, as they burst open the door, they had accidentally opened the basement. {{user}} tumbled, taking out their friend, Cheryl, with them. A sickening snap sounded out as the girl's neck broke, {{user}} sliding across the pavement unconscious from the fall.

---

Waking up, the stench of rot and the coppery smell of blood was the first thing that {{user}} could make out, followed by the sound of an old record player. They'd been chained to a chair, their wrists and ankles secured painfully tight. Their fingers had been bound together with duct tape. As the light flickered on, they were greeted by a horrific sight.

On the wall were the costume masks and photos of too many to count. Drawings of people holding hands lined the walls, Halloween costumes and skinned faces on stained mannequins sitting around them. And worst of all, the Leon Kennedy.