As I pull up towards the beaten house, I notice that the windows are wide open, as if someone left them that way. With the windows wide open, the two-story house looks like it has black gaping holes as eyes. The dark gray paint is slowly chipping off the wooden wall, giving it an abandoned look.

It seems suspicious, so I enter the house cautiously. Perhaps my grandmother returned home from work and opened them to let in fresh air. But her car isn't in the driveway.

I exit the car, walk up the rickety steps and slowly open the door. It creaks open with its hinges protesting to the sudden movement. I creep into the living room; luckily, there is nothing peculiar inside.

I flop onto what would be called a sofa and plant my feet onto the dusty table in front of me. After placing myself into this very comfortable seating, I close my eyes.

I never thought of the house as mine, or home really. It feels like it still belongs to someone else. And that someone is still residing here. It's why I never put a bed in this house. Without a bed placed here, it feels like I am living here only temporarily. So I sleep on the couch. I don't care if I sleep on a bed or a sofa or anything really, as long as I can sleep.

Right now, the only furniture we have is the sofa, Grandmother's rocker, and a wobbly table. Plus some boxes of old memories and things as well as an ancient refrigerator, ready to die at any moment. Our clothes hang in the one of many closets that exists in this house.

My eyes feel heavy so I succumb to the sweet desire of sleep; I manage to drift off into a restless sleep before her wailing starts. My eyes shoot open and I find myself searching for the source, even when I already know.

It's the Wailing Woman, as I like to call her. I don't know her name, so that's her nickname. It makes me feel more at ease really.

"Heeyyy! Be quiet will you? I'm trying to sleep!" I yell to no one in particular. I have this thing where I have a pretend conversation, well wailing contest to be more exact, with her.

She just continues her caterwauling and I know, I won't be able to sleep. Maybe Grandmother is home now. It's past nine o'clock, she should be arriving now. 

See, after my mother died, Dad raised me until he died a couple years back. Now Grandmother is my legal guardian, but she just lets me do my own thing.

"Dear? Are you home?" Grandmother asks hesitantly as she enters the house. Her short gray hair bounces a little as she shuffles across the floor.

"Yes, Grandmother." I sigh and help her into her rocking chair in the corner of the room.

"Mmf. Were you sleeping dearie?" she asks me a little confused. She begins to rummage through her shabby purse, pulling out a spool of yarn, needles, and a worn-out little notebook.

Setting the yarn and needles on her lap, she opens up the notebook, riffling through yellowed pages. Her glasses wobble on her nose as she skims through the ancient recipes passed down from generation to generation.

"Ah. Let me cook some dinner. How about some- no, we don't have any of that- maybe some of - no, it's too late to sundry anything-" 

"Grandmother, I already ate. It's okay; you don't have to cook anything." I find myself snapping at her. She makes it a habit to cook dinner for the two of us, even if neither of us is hungry. The result is mountains of food piled into our already too small fridge.

"Hmm, alright then. I'm going to go to sleep now then." She frowns and then places her yarn and needles back into her purse. Grabbing the moth-eaten blanket from the armrest, she drapes it over herself. Not long afterwards, I can hear her faint snores.

See, I sleep on the couch while Grandmother sleeps in her rocker, simple. No bed sheets or pillows needed. Simple as that.

I snuggle into the warm corner of the couch and close my eyes, ready for the morning's rays to wake me. And just as I'm about to fall asleep, I hear the faint beginnings of sorrowful weeping.

I can't take it anymore; my eyes shoot open. I swim each night so I can calm myself and not try to strangle the nonexistent Wailing Woman. But each night, I barely get enough sleep to drag myself to work.

I'm going to find her tonight, so I can try to shut her up so I can actually sleep without hearing howls in the night.

Leaping off the couch and I grab the flashlight on the table. Marching up the stairs, I storm straight towards the faded door at the end of the hallway.

She always sounds as if she is sobbing in the main bedroom. I haven't entered that room, perhaps because it has the same atmosphere as the lone tree. That, and the door is locked. Nothing like a good ole lock to keep you out.

I hesitate about entering when I'm a foot away from the door. It looks more sinister than I remember no doubt because of the pale white light the flashlight gives off. The light emphasizes the look of the peeling white paint and the tarnished door handle.

And know that I look at it, I can see the faint impressions of claw marks on the door.

I'm shivering now, I can feel a faint breeze coming from underneath the door. I bet this room has an open window.

I try to turn the handle but just as expected, it’s locked. I try jiggling the handle to see if I can unlock it. Then, I'm rewarded the tinny sound of a faint click.

I push the door and it scrapes open, revealing a stark white bedroom. Inside is a queen-sized bed with silvery linen covers and pillows. Alabaster dressers are set next to the head of the bed while an ivory closet stands in one corner. A once pure white rug lies on the cold wooden floor.

I don't hear her crying anymore.

As I wander towards one of the dressers, I spy the fluttering of pearly gossamer curtains. The breeze is making me shiver even more in this already freezing house. I shut the windows and latch it to ensure it stays closed. Has that window been open this whole time I've been living here? 

Returning to the dresser, I pick up a yellowed diary. It doesn’t have a title or anything, just a pale blue leather cover. I open it and glance at the date on the first page. 

December 24, 1955.

This house is must be ancient yet it's still standing. I was born in 1989. I think Grandmother was alive at this time, she was born in 1930.

I try to read the first page but the handwriting is too discolored to read. Upon further inspection, the only words I can read are "love him" and "refuse to".

I shake my head. Those phrases seem rather contrasting. Why say you "love him" and then "refuse to" do something with the person you love? Makes no sense to me.

It seems as if the author of this journal is a girl, perhaps in her teens or early twenties. The writing looks very graceful and exquisite, like a refined woman's penmanship would look like.

I try to find more words that are legible so I can make more sense of this diary. The following pages prove useless but the later ones reveal more clues. The next words that pop out are "lake" and "full moon". When I see those three words, I connect them with Kim Myungsoo. He's always there on the lake's island and at the time of the full moon. Maybe the writer was somehow associated with him.

The following phrase puts together all the puzzle pieces.

The sentence looks so clear on the piece of paper; it looks like it was freshly written seconds ago. Actually, it was freshly written. The ink is still wet and glistening on the ivory page. I'm so startled by this, I drop the book and it falls, echoing so loudly onto the wood floor, the noise rams itself against my eardrums.

Kim Myungsoo was....murdered? It seems so unlikely yet it works perfectly. Why he seemed so reluctant to tell of his death. Why he had these strange red lines on his neck. There were all signs, ghosts of his murder.

But how does this girl relate to Kim Myungsoo? 

Unless, she was perhaps his lover? And she refused to do some forbidden action with him and he tried to force her. And she ended up killing her own lover. That made sense.

As I scurry over to the doorway, I see at the end of the hallway, a teenaged girl. Her face is obscured by flowing black hair and I can tell she has flawless milky skin. Wearing only an elegant white gown, she would look like a porcelain doll were it not for the gaping red stain on her chest. 

I freeze with fear. I don't know what she'll do to me. Leave me be or try to do something harmful.

Her lips move and out of , she utters a pitiful wail. It raises the hair on my neck.

The Wailing Woman.

I gasp and try to move but it feels like I'm in stuck in a thick soup of tar, my arms feel leaden and heavy. Then she raises her head, and I can see her eyes. 

They are completely black, with a thin shine to them, like glass. Glass eyes.

She bares her teeth and suddenly begins to glide ever so faster towards me. 

Twenty feet, fifteen, ten, and then three feet away from my shock-still body. Her eyes stare piercingly into mine and then she begins to lament, while swaying her head back and forth.

"Why, why did you take him from me?"

I can't defend myself. I can't speak or form words with these lips of mine to try and soothe her.

Abruptly after crooning to herself, she composes herself. She raises her head until we are eye-to-eye. What she says next sends shivers down my body.

"No matter. You are no longer important."

She shakes her head in disappointment and makes a tsking sound. She raises her hand.

Just then do I notice the gleaming knife in her right hand.

I watch helplessly as it stabs me in the chest, sinking deep in my flesh.

GAHH! Guys, guys, guess what? 

I scared the heebie jeebies outta myself while writing this! D: I was writing the hallway scene and it was super quiet where I was writing. Then, as I started the girl's description, I heard some footsteps ten feet away from me. I almost fell out of my chair! :c

So here are some more clues for your interest and puzzling. c: For those who've subscribed, mind giving me a comment on your thoughts? ~(^^~)

~Snow