A strange girl about my age stood on the corner; the corner of the living room in which I was standing. This living room, along with the rest of the house, has been kept in a time capsule since the 1920s— as was the girl.
She had a short boyish haircut which ironically accentuated her female features. Her hair was midnight black and her skin was pale from powder. Her eyebrows were plucked into a soft arch darkened by a black eyebrow pencil, which seems like one of the many makeup tools she used. Her lips were bloody red and her upper lip had the shape of the loopy part of a lower case m. Her cheeks had a hint of cotton candy pink. A porcelain doll would be envious of her. When I saw her eyes, I was thrown back. They were violet. Never in my life have I seen violet eyes. I stared at them in wonder as she stared at me back.
I broke the eerie eye contact and noticed her clothes for the first time. I didn’t notice before that she was wearing what seemed to be the remains of a once elegant and a once ivory colored dress. Now it was torn and looked as if it was dragged through dirt. The dress was modest, reaching just below the knees where dirty earth-caked pearls lined along the hem disappearing into ruffled fabric towards the back. The dress was accessorized with long necklaces of the same deathly pearls.
Suddenly, a dark color of red caught my attention; it was to her side. I leaned to the side and saw even more red. Then the realization came to me… dried blood decorated the back of her dress. I gasped and took a few steps back, bumping into the tourists behind me. They were annoyed by me. Couldn’t they see her too? I looked back to her disturbingly doll-like face. A large teardrop was halfway down her cheek. She then turned slowly, exposing the large gash still oozing fresh blood and walked into the wall disappearing right before me. I was flabbergasted. What did I just see? I looked down to my brochure; in bold cursive words the title said “The murder house of Lucy Brooks.”