Romans & histoires The Last House On The Street

We haven’t introduced ourselves rightly yet and he is through shades at me. We headed to the place called pack house which is an enormous mansion like white house. I wondered how many families live here alone. How could I have thought of a place like this under the woods? This place is well hidden from the humans. Now I understand why. “What are you thinking, Onyx?” Fiarra asked me. “Nothing! I am astonished to see this place civilized like modern cities like copenhagen.” I replied in a single line. “Were you thinking of us as cavemen?” Jacob sneered.

I stared at the message on my phone. [Viola, after Jane is discharged, she'll stay at your place. Remember—lilies in the master bedroom, and repaint the walls blue. That's what she likes. She'll be out in two weeks. Move all your things to the basement. Jane has too much—there won't be space otherwise.] Selena's hands shook as she held the phone. She was probably feeling hopeless too. Here I was about to die, and my mom was worrying about someone else. But that wasn't new. I had known this for a long time.

but you once said you can't live with poor man like me, but here you are In my house, and you don't know when you are leaving my house, and you don't know maybe this is your last bus stop" Mickel said, "That was then, but now, this Is my last bus stop, I don't think I will go out for three months because I know that you are capable of taking care of me" Naomi said, and he smiles, and she stood up and moves closer to Mickel and she kissed him but Mickel wasn't reciprocate, and he held her hands, and said, "babe, I'm poor, but this house Is mine, I bought this house with my money, but the day you call me a poor man, I wept, but I hold myself, you told me that, my house Is not a mansion, you po

Sheldon sold his own blood just to scrape together enough cash to sneak back into the country. He'd lost everything—flat broke, banned from flying, and not a penny to his name. Smuggling himself back was his only option. After a grueling week-long trip, he finally made it home. The first thing he did was rush to the basement apartment in our old neighborhood, thinking he'd find me and the boys there. But when he opened the door, all he saw was junk piled to the ceiling, the place stinking of mold and trash.

“We’re on our way, Dad. Just wait for us to get home.” “What home are you talking about, Damon?” he roars. “There are people standing in front of our house, telling us we have three days to get the hell out! They claim you used the Blackwood villa as collateral to bid on some damn drug—and then lost it, too! Have you completely lost your mind? What the hell is going on?!”

Mom opened the sketchbook, glanced at it, and started ripping. Hard. The sharp tear of paper filled the room. "No! Mom, don't!" I lunged for her, but my hands cut through empty air. I dropped to the floor, shaking, staring at the scraps everywhere. I couldn't even cry anymore. When the sketchbook was shredded, Mom stood there, catching her breath. Then she walked out and shut the door behind her. Leaving me alone with the torn pages. *** Mom's phone rang again. The driver. He begged her not to call the cops. Said he'd pay whatever it took.

Our house was in a better condition than its inhabited, at least it was standing tall and not withering like my family. "By mom, bye Stella." I whispered and stuffed all the bags into the trunk of the cab, they knew I would be leaving early morning today, they clearly didn't think it was important to say goodbye. But I did, so one last time I looked back at the house and smiled, one last time I whispered a goodbye to the memories I made in that house. One last time and then I turned my back on it, to never return. ------------------------------------------------------

The dark clouds produced some lightning, completing the Dracula vibes of the House of Lamentation. A mailbox and its carved house’s address grabbed Cent’s attention. Street 666, House of Lamentation

There were boxes and crates stacked haphazardly throughout the room, piles of old belongings that didn’t belong to us but to the man who had lived here before. The house was large, larger than anyone might expect in a town as small as Dust Bowl. It was the kind of house that could’ve housed an entire extended family comfortably, maybe even two. But Dust Bowl had long been home to families that had stayed put for generations, despite the hardships they’d faced. That all changed recently when the residents learned that the last Dirt Storm, the one that had bound them to this place through the Dirt Curse, was the final one ever. With the curse lifted, many families began packing up to leave, kn

The neighborhood we’re currently standing in looks like it’s straight out of a horror movie—peeling, dilapidated buildings, rats scurrying up and down the street and a cat glaring at us from where it perches on top of a dumpster—and with the line up of sleek luxury cars we’d come in idling at the curb, we couldn’t stand out any more even if we tried. “You’re sure that’s the place?” Spencer asks, jerking his chin at the house with the number 15. It’s in exactly the same shape as the other houses, with a rusted staircase down the side that I don’t trust to carry my weight. There’s a total of three flats upstairs and from the information Adam provided, the last one is the one we’re looking for.