www.whyville.net Nov 27, 2011 Weekly Issue

Guest Writer

Metamorphosis of the Ring

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I drove out to Seminole Ridge, pondering over what surprise Tony had in mind when he told me to meet him over by the lake house.

Me, being an infamous romantic, visioned things like Jake and I staring into each others eyes in a dimly-lit room inside the grand house.

Once the rubicund wall bordering the lake house came in my line of sight, I rushed to find a parking spot, eager to find out the surprise.

I climbed up the squeaky oak three-step staircase that led to the alabaster front door. The malicious bald eagle doorbell was there like it always was during our late night visits.

My heart started beating rapidly; the eagle always freaked me out, it looked prepared to eat anyone who sets foot near the door.

I always became much calmer as soon as the outlandish door was out of my sight. The moon's low rays shine through the miniscule holes on the ceiling as I walked across the hallway, giving it an eerie look.

I then came across the emerald door, which housed the many blissful memories Tony and I shared. Just the thought of them brought a smile upon my visage.

With the firm noise of the door being shut, I went toward the center of the room where I could easily see the room in a disarray from the ceiling to the floor. The antique chandelier that once stood on the mahogany ceiling, now hung on it's hinges. Papers enveloped the floor leaving no sign of an actual floor beneath all the clutter.

What shocked me most was not the condition the room was in, it was the fact that in the back corner of the room, there was a message written in scarlet. As I walked closer to it, I began praying it wasn't blood.

The message was clear but drops of the red liquid raced down to the barely visible floor, an action resembling that of a horror movie.

It stated: 'I've been watching you for years now, and Tony doesn't deserve you . . . I DO. I'll come back for you.'

Beneath the creepy message was a down arrow which pointed to a very dusty looking obsidian bag. I shakily opened to bag to see myriad pictures of me in different events, some when I was six, up until one at my sixteenth birthday last weekend.

"Oh my gosh." I said aloud, with my eyes bulging out.

Then I unfortunately noticed that something still remained in the bag besides the stalkerish photos.

I took a peek into the bag and saw a streak of brown that oddly looked like the color of skin. I slowly took the peculiar object outside the bag, to drop it onto the floor in disgust when I realized what it was.

It was . . . it was a human hand. And not just any hand, it was Tony's hand. The ring on the severed hand was the one I gave him for his seventeenth birthday; the gold of it still shimmered but not in the proud way it once used to. No. It shined in a malicious way that reminded me that this wasn't the end of it.


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