This Is Exile

Just how exactly does a house become haunted?

A sort of prequel to 'There Was A Wizard In My Room', 'Haunt These Halls' & 'id'.

Do not read this expecting a nice short telling. Notice the genre and the CAUTION!

He wasn't a normal boy. He had always admired the female form, not like the cheesy guy at the other end of the bar, but on a much deeper level. Almost like a yearning.

He loved their clothing from top to bottom but adored just how little of it they could wear. How much of their beautiful form they could show to the world and only have them marvel at it.

As a boy, he admitted he had a problem. But no it wasn't of his desire to be or become a woman - it was the fact that he had no shame. He saw no sense in it, why should he be ashamed of what he was? Sure, he got hell for it at times, at home and at school but he marched on through seemingly without a care. Some of his fellow classmates often joked that he was without a soul, he could never prove them wrong. He didn't want to prove them wrong.

As time progressed he moved into a new housing estate, now a man - not a woman - he considered himself himself and by himself that was okay.
He continued to dress in whatever the hell he wanted, but never did he dress up. This was real, also he never went out.

Now I don't know what you know about loneliness, you may have considered yourself 'lonely' in the past, but if the two syllable word has ever left your mouth, you are wrong. This young man was so isolated, so alone, that he had no one to even whisper these words to. All he had was his walls.

Through a life of hurt, doubt, rejection and the unknown; these walls were something he could finally call his own. He had worked for them, he had earned them and now they were all he had. Soon this pride of possession got the better of him, and he chose to let them take the ultimate control over his life. He hung himself upon them.

You might wonder how I, the second tenant of this house, know so much about its previous owner. Well, of course under the circumstances, the estate agents told me nothing of him. But this is not a house that keeps secrets. It is one that does not make you mad, but finds the madness already inside of you.

I noticed it one day, almost like I had been exposed to the house's ways long enough to truly notice it. The writing on the walls... the writing of a mad man.

Naturally, I tried to scrub it right off. However, I feel the ink has long since sunk deep through these walls and I am now haunted by his dead letters and empty words. I guess he finally found himself a soul...

But now I can really feel the effects; I am reclusive, hallucinogenic, hollow and dead inside. It's too late for me, but I beg of whoever moves into here in the future, leave the moment you find this note.

Because this is exile.