In conclusion the world can also follow a trivial example of a town in the style from Stephen King’s novel- "IT", which certainly hides terrible mysteries.
At the end of the city, in the outlying area 13KM away, comes to light the proof of an existing myth, a pending case of the disappearance of 11 victims which remains unsolved.
Today, she takes on the role of a ghost geek, a moody teen reader of too much horror, but the victims are confirmation of the existence of an underworld force.
What I read in the story has its ``carrying on`` in that dense cherry wood residence, partially flooded in the stagnant water of the swamp where the locals pour the waste, starting from apple stumps to rabbit carcasses. The fog partially swallows half the construction of a charcoal-brown hue, accompanied by stairs from the upper platform that extends to the point near the edge of the earth.
Thousands of muscles and ferns stretch like fishermen'snets,the smell of mothballs and déja-vu opposes your desire to step into that place like a reversed magnetic pole.
The little boy, that sweet 5-year-old little brother, whose idea of the world around him is refracted through pink lenses, runs to that place, to that momentum point, where life is an unpromising notion. The wind and the red slide, like that of the US president's car, are the softening factors of the victims between 4-11 years old, those arrogant, self-assured ones, who in the morning when they brush their teeth see the reflection of a superhero in the mirror sprinkled with toothpaste and saliva.
Sprinting like a juvenile goat to the death trap with his sister in the back and me convinced of the horror "Happy End" like in the movies.
The agility with which he hurried through the attractions, the innocent smile that could sweeten anyone's day distracted me from the lantern used for cremations almost to its extinguishing point, not reaching it for only a few minutes. It burned in the vagueness of the day like an hourglass, calculating the time we were unaware of because of the morning fog. The sister was amused at the expense of the little boy who jumped from point to point, he would have conquered inertia.
He proposed that we descend to the shore, carefully stepping on the semi -stable ladder on the lake of a whiteness of vomit. I clung to the vegetable ruins floating above my head, securing myself with something, unable to swim.
He had climbed the red plane that physically supported him like the sand of an hourglass, at any moment it could flow into the valley like melted butter from a frying pan. I had left my Oxford bag at the starting point of the non-tourist attraction, the child had set out to touch my bag or, I suppose, to make a bad joke, but had failed, floating to the edge of the wet shore in shouts with 70 decibels. According to local fantasies, anyone who reaches that high peak (shout), will revive the death of the deep, the unknown. Said and done.
Time, space had crumbled when a vaguely descriptive figure, dressed in that creased blue medical scrubs, had emerged from the tumultuous water. He approached the boy and pulled him by the ruined T-shirt from the rubbing of the mud against gravity, then with the words with a French accent he released his head with the sound of a poor quality doll, the scene was terrible, but incredibly clean. The sister in shouts had run towards him as if she could resurrect him, but instead of preventing the inevitable, she also ended with her head being uncorked like the lid of an expired bottle of sparkling
wine. They asked with a non-specific accent to the locals, ressembling french: "Sweetie, shouldn't you have stayed at school?...", "My sweetheart, didn't your mother tell you that walking in unfamiliar places isn't good?". One by one, tens, hundreds emerged from the swamp that did not promise existence, as from the egg of moths.
I froze in shock on the upper deck, cut off my last inspiration, and turned left, toward the exit. Human- looking creatures had become more voluminous as they inhibited the light of life from the now -desolate eyes of those twins. I had tried desperately to break the lock, while holding the door to avoid the inevitable. I had no hope, even the last one had died, only my instincts and the butterfly knife given to me by my father at the age of 6 on my grandfather's deathbed. Not being part of the male sex, I had received the luxury of a transmitted weapon, trapped in dust and scars due to old age.
I wasn’t a good runner and I knew I wouldn’t stand a chance, even though I was the person with a bony constitution by which you could give me a nickname after a fish species.
Now or not, I have the alternative to act. Only I could save myself in this story...
