Personal Narrative: 420 East South Street

Day after day, we would pass the mansion building on our way to and from school. Branches of vines and clusters of moss crawled up the sides of the building. I could see the paint, tearing off the walls. People for years have said the mansion building is haunted, but I don’t believe it. They say people have been possessed and killed there. Olivia, of course, believes every detail anyone tells him. To teach him a lesson, we decided to plan to spend the night in the mansion building this Saturday.

On February 21st, 2017 at approximately 1550 hours, my partner Officer Presley #2100 and I responded to 598 Dolores St., in a marked patrol vehicle in full uniform, regarding a possible dog attack and fight in progress.

I unlock the metal gate and climb onto the front patio. Before me stands a two-story house with newly-refurbished windows and a fresh coat of white paint. I admire the house’s beauty as I stroll past it. I walk through a crowded path of mohintli, white laelia, tithonia, and dahlias that seem to guide me to the real reason I am at this address. After moving the branches of some avocado trees out of the way, I finally find the treasure I am seeking: a small rose-colored house with just two windows and two rooms. With the key my father gave me, I open the doors to enter the rooms. The light switch does not work, so only shadows are present in the room. Giant cracks graze the walls like the markings of a lion. On the ceiling, an intricate flower design shines proudly with the rest of the room, slowly losing its will to decay. Only broken furniture stands in the corners of the room, ashamed to be present in front of a girl from the North. After taking a deep breath to calm my emotions, I lock the door, look to the sky, and walk back to the house I am staying at with my

Have you ever seen the TV show the “Walton’s?” If you have, then you will definitely be able to identify how unique the place was where I was raised. I was raised in North Arkansas in a small community called Onia. In fact, the road that I lived on was called Lawrence Road. It was named this because all of my relatives lived down this road. My Grandpa, who is now a retired Baptist preacher, lived down this road along with his brothers and sisters. The church that I grew up going to was also pastored by my grandfather for over thirty years and it was about two miles down the road. The community bordered the Ozark National Forest so it was very rural and isolated. Most of the traffic on Lawrence Road was mainly the people who lived

After a long day of moving boxes and bags into my brother’s new home in the Wall dorms, my parent’s and I filed into the truck and headed for the hotel, just a few blocks from campus. That evening was spent exploring the French Quarter and driving through the city in search of food. My father decided to take a detour down Claiborne Ave. Initially, I did not know what father was looking for, but as we got closer to our destination, I soon realized we were entering Lower Ninth Ward. “Why are going through here?” I asked confusingly. I received no response. I peered out of my window curiously, and immediately understood my father’s hidden agenda. It was clear that Ninth Ward had been deeply impacted by Katrina. Despite the fact that nearly three years had past, this area was still in terrible condition. We had heard about the damage when everyone sought refuge in Houston, but seeing the poverty first hand put the situation in perspective.

August 25th, I got a call from an old lady down by Grillton St., a body has been found. This elderly lady lived by herself in a two-story house, she was entirely immobile and bound to her wheelchair. She used to need her husband to help around the house but since his mysterious death she required a carer who would visit her daily to help her with everyday tasks like cooking and cleaning. The two floors of the house were only connected by a staircase. When the old lady needed to move between the two, the carer would have to carry her frail body like a baby, up and down the stairs. For years the local retirement centre has been trying to convince the poor lady to move out, but she always said that her late husband would want her to be there. To be with him.

This past summer I went to West Palm Beach, Florida for a showcase baseball tournament with my summer travel team. My mom, dad, and my girlfriend Calen also went. The tournament started the week after school ended, so at the end of my last day of school we left for the tournament. The drive drive down there was terribly long, it was about 10 and a half hours by car. We arrived at the hotel at around 7 o’clock pm, and the hotel was not as nice as we thought it would be originally.

“I want to find out what’s up there.” As she drove to the tallest peak surrounding the town, she looked at the white fluffy clouds covering portions of the mountaintop before noticing the two-story house in the field and stopped. Looking at the tiles missing, the loose boards hanging from the roof, and the weeping willows with their long limbs wrapped around the house and the vines covering portions of the house gave it a true, ghost story façade.

We Entered the Fully furnished antique home avoiding the broken glass pieces stuck around the perimeter of the window. The wallpaper was peeling and the furniture was eaten up by mice and rats. We walk around the room for five minutes silent until Grayson breaks the silence of course saying “Woah creepy” pointing at the large family portrait with each face smudged out with black ink. “Well let's look around then just leave” I say with Aleisha backing me up. “Nah nah” Grayson alluded in perfect harmony with my brother adding “Leigh Settle its just a house an old house”. “The Pattison Murder house where like everyone in the family was apparently killed by the son” Aleisha interjected. “Key word there, apparently” Grayson laughed rolling his eyes.I let out a slight sigh as I walked down the Hall with Aleisha. The Floors creaked and parts of the ceiling were smothered with Black

“Our only way out of this place is your bedroom window! Come on!” I didn’t need any convincing, I just ran towards the window and violently flung it open. The night air didn’t seem to comfort me like it usually did. I looked down, thinking that we were lucky to be living on the ground level. I hopped out as my brother cautiously left the room, making sure to hold tight to my mum. As we ran towards the neighboring houses, I heard a few masculine yells coming from my bedroom. Millions of the thought raced through my head, I was ready to block them. Panic is not an option now. A moment later, my older brother gestured for me to run towards the house that opposed our small building. While I made my way through the streets, I noticed that some people had left the safety of their homes and were watching the incident in fright. I was glad and relived to see people on their phones. Hopefully calling

Her eyes struggled to stay open, slowly blinking but never closing. Droplets from the clouds rolled down the windowpane, like copycats of those running down her face. The night was dark with shadows. The only sounds in the house were the plump raindrops falling on the windowsill, the clinking of beer bottles and the sound of her nervous breath. She had to stay awake for she had left the moment he had passed out on the dusty couch in the living room. Her sweaty palms clutched the leather straps of her bag. Her body shook like a small dog’s and the wind made the trees sway like the ghosts of everything she’d ever known. The sound finally came and so did the closing of her bedroom door.

Sometimes do you ever just feel like there is someone out there waiting for you, to change your life, but you just haven't met them yet? In a world with over 7 billion people that is often the case. Out of those 7 billion people about 10,000 of them live in a small suburb of Michigan called the East Bend. Sounds fancy huh? Well you could say that. About one half of our town is full of nice well kept homes owned by businessmen or doctors. Then one fourth is owned by those regular everyday cookie cutter type families. Then the remaining fourth are well the others. The weirdo rednecks who love four wheelin and cow kicking, or just that one family the whole neighborhood just stays as far away as possible from. I’m one of those well normal families.

When I was around the age 11-12 my sister and I would go to our Dad's furniture place. The front of the building was in good shape but the back of the building was effect by hurricane Katrina. The tail of the building was scattered with sharp wood, scraggy stripped tin, and many other hazards. This place was forbidden from My sister and I, yet one day we decided to go on an 'adventure' back there. I ended up with tin stuck in my leg but neither of us would tell my dad how I got the injury. At the end of the day I told my dad and my sister was punished for my

Four days, three days, two days, it's tomorrow. Although I have been counting down to this date, it is ludicrous how fast the days have gone. As I make my way to the venue I look out the window of the car and think to myself how much I am going to enjoy this night. It is the sight of an exaggerated amount of teenage angst immaculately aligned outside in the freezing cold.

The chipped white door was stuck to the coop, as if a demon did not want me to set foot in his domain. A loud thud of the door slammed the exterior two by fours and was at once open. Dust dangled down from from the opening of the striking ebony and ivory door. It filled my eyes with crunchy gravel. I stepped down into the coop and my foot met the mixture of chicken and duck feces. To the right was a damaged window with jagged glass. Chicken wire filled in the spots where the shard glass was missing. Further down the wall broken eggshells intermittently littered cobwebs that filled the abandoned nesting box. As I gandered at the back wall a brown recluse spider skittered between two cracked bricks. It was lit up enough that I could see the