Omen

by TheGirlWhoLivedLovedAndLied

Living alone in a house that stands out from the rest, Lyn is convinced that something is hell-bent on killing her, and barely leaves the safety of her own home, invoking suspicion among locals. So when the Winchesters come knocking, will Lyn get past her trust issues enough to solve the mystery that has been haunting her all these years?

3 years previously

Breathing in short sharp gasps, Lyn cautiously ascends the stairs, flinching at each creak the wood makes under her weight. Armed with an obnoxiously pink flashlight, she feels herself drawn to the room at the end of the hallway, the would-of-been Nursery, where a ceremonious dripping noise echoes.

Upon hearing the noise initially, Lyn thought nothing of it, blaming it on the ancient pipework and supposed crack in the ceiling. Though as it persisted, she chose to investigate.

Still, as she continues to climb, there is a strangely ominous feel to it all, the air suddenly thick and heavy, making it laborious to breathe. Lyn paces with an almost feline step along the landing, getting progressively more wary as the dripping gets louder, the door edging closer, her heart beating faster.

Fingers twitching anxiously, with much effort they grasp the doorknob, turning it clockwise. The Nursery door creaks open.

Darkness clouding her vision, she shines her flashlight in the direction of the light switch, which after years of neglect is shrouded in cobwebs. The dripping sound is painfully loud now, each plink drilling into her skull, a faint smell of metal in the air. Uncaring of spiders and the likes, Lyn flicks the switch and the lightbulb flickers on. Upon glancing at the room now in light, the flashlight clatters to the floor, Lyn's hand brought to her mouth stifling a scream.

Blood. Scarlet liquid trickling down the walls from underneath the peeling wallpaper. Pints of it, dripping onto the floor, pooling into browning, congealing puddles.

Paralysed,with eyes wide as saucers, Lyn can do nothing but force herself to stare in horror at the sight, every muscle refusing to move.

Tears in her eyes, fear in her heart, she remains still, as the drip-drip-dripping of blood against the floor of the Nursery grows ever louder.

A single drop of the lukewarm substance hits her square on her forehead, snapping her out of her haze, her bleary eyes now directed towards the ceiling. Her breath hitches in her throat and she finally finds her voice in a shrill scream. On the ceiling, smeared in blood, is a garish mural of an apple tree.