Murder House

The Doctor of Death stared at the house. It was a rather nice looking house. It was nothing compared to his, but this one had something his didn’t; ghost. The Doctor took a drag from his cigarette. He started walking about the path and he briefly wondered if anyone was currently living there. Then he forgot to care. He walked up the steps glancing behind him. In the house across the street he saw a curtain twitch. He smirked turning back to the door.

The murder house. It’s rather plain. I should buy it. Change it so it can live up to it’s name. The Doctor reached forward to the doorknob when it suddenly twisted and creaked open. It was as if the house was inviting him in. Not that he need the invitation; he would have gotten in one way or another. Stepping into the house The Doctor took in the staircase and the modern living room. He sighed. House has gone to such a waster. Should be darker, scarier. This is nothing.

The Doctor stepped deeper into the house and the door slammed closed behind him. He didn’t flinch like the noise didn’t reach his brain. The Doctor stepped into the living room and glanced out the window. I should get a cane. I could hide a blade in it. Maybe my sword. The Doctor pushed his hand into his pocket as he looked out the window unimpressed by the so called Murder House.







& violetgoescommado have appeared.

He’s sulking around the basement again, a book of Keats in his lap and a bottle of booze nicked from the house’s newest inhabitants liquor cabinet. He starts to drink, turning to “Bright Star” and preparing to spend an hour with words and his bad mood. But then he hears someone walking down the stairs and making more noise than he even thought possible. “Fuck off. Some people are trying to read here!”