Why not take a walk with me? There are not many things that terrify me. Scare me, yes but not to the point of paralyzing fear. What does strike a feeling so numbing in my heart is the house on Eighty Seventh Street. I can tell you tales and rumors of number twenty one that originated in nineteen eighty five. Twenty five years later however these tales have been so extremely exaggerated that they now seem like fake fables for the open minded.

One tale is not a fable though and there is no need for a listener who believes in the unbelievable. Look up and the sign will tell you that this is Eighty Seventh Street. As you walk, an echo strikes, no birds, no crickets just the sound of your footsteps. It never was this quiet with the exception of one house, this house, number twenty one. No white picket fences or bushes of white roses, o no! This garden is only home to faded white fences and is littered with thorny thistle bushes. Broken branches litter the once green grass and above dangling dead trees claw and pull you closer into the darkness, closer to a house of horror.

Walking to the front door would be a futile action. They locked the front door when she passed, no one had the stomach to remove her “artworks”. The back door is unlocked as no one wanted to move closer to her “studio”. The iodoform scent is intensely strong in this part of the house, it’s what she used to clean her equipment. Come and join me on the couch as I take you back five years, when Amy and I first walked through those doors. The sound of clinking ice cubes still emanates in my mind as Mrs Walters poured the, strange walnut tasting, lemonade into our long glasses.

“How long I have been waiting for a girl of your exact age and features” she said to Amy. Mrs Walters had a tabby named Jessie, she’s still there, lying by the fireplace, immobile. Mrs Walters had a bright smile. Watching how efficiently she moved her hands was fascinating as she baked our favorite chocolate chip cookies.

“I know that they are your favorite kind” she remarked when our eyes lit up. She called Amy, Elizabeth Brown all the time. This never bothered Amy but it made me strangely uneasy.

Amy loved mystery and this house was large filled with crevices and an extraordinary huge amount of hiding places. So that’s what Amy and I did. We played hide and seek. We started as always I counted to one hundred and Amy ran around. Finding the best hiding place was always easy for her. Ninety eight, ninety nine, one hundred. Before I opened my eyes I smelt a breeze of iodoform float past and heard a door close. I searched for hours but never found her. Mrs Walters phoned the police but Amy wasn't found. For three months I stayed away from this house, this street as everyone searched for Amy. Two years went by, Amy wasn't found and rumors had started. The teenage boys suggested that Mrs Walters had killed Amy, I knew better I had actually met her. Mrs Walters past away and the house was open for everyone. We all searched on the first two levels of the house but all we found was stuffed animals and a room where Mrs Walters clearly prepared them.

I was the first to wonder to the third level. Blackness swallowed me in as I opened the first door. Standing in the corner was Elizabeth Brown, eternally preserved.