Okay, I finally finished my writing for the rocking chair image. I feel like the ending might be a bit rushed, but hopefully it conveys what I wanted it to okay enough. I think I actually want to try to turn it into a plot for a game using these tiles.
Spoiler
Sarah could hear it again.
The creaking.
The whispered voice singing.
“Hush little baby…” floated down the hall, under her tightly closed door. It was just a whisper, but somehow so loud.
The first two nights she’d been brave enough to tiptoe down the hall to her parents’ room. “Mamma, Mamma,” she’d said in a hushed tone, afraid that the voice would hear as she shook her mother’s shoulder.
The first night, her mother had sleepily patted her arm and reassured her it was just a bad dream. She rolled over back into sleep before Sarah could explain that she could still hear the singing, right now.
The second night she’d wakened her father. He sat up, groggy, trying to understand what she was telling him, listening, assuring her he heard nothing, and it must have been her imagination; she wasn’t used to being in this house yet, it was an old house, and old houses make noises.
The third night, she wanted to go again, to tell them, to try to convince them that she could hear something that they could not. But she knew deep down that they would dismiss her again, so she’d simply shoved her pillow tightly over her ears and hugged Mr. Whiskers more closely.
This time was different though. Chills sprang up on her arms despite the warm summer sun streaming through her window. At 11, Sarah still believed daylight was supposed to be safe. She gently set her doll inside its miniature house and rose to her feet, staring at her door as if the owner of the voice would walk through.
She wanted her mother. She felt that surely, fully awake, her mother would hear the sounds she did. But Mamma was out in the yard planting flowers in the beds. In order to get her, she knew she would have to go to the voice, crossing through the room the singer occupied.
Once again making her resolve to be brave, she grabbed Mr. Whiskers, clutched him tight and walked to her door. She put her hand on the knob and froze only a moment before turning it. As she stepped into the hall, she could hear the whisper echoing loudly in her ears.
Forcing her feet to move one step at a time, she reached the end of the hall before she was ready. She would run through the room quickly to the door and outside to the safety of mother, nothing else, that was her plan.
As she stepped into the room however, she froze, her plan forgotten by the chilling site of a ghostly chair rocking back and forth, the voice coming from its invisible occupant. The voice was louder now, clear and she wanted to run, but could not find the will to move her feet. The singing broke off as a figure formed in the chair, turning to look at her.
“Sarah, my Sarah.” The young woman in the chair reached out a hand to her…
Ruth pulled off her gardening gloves as she stood up. Brushing off the knees of her pants, she admired her work. The flowers were planted, bringing a bit of cheeriness to the façade of the old house. Glancing at her watch, she realized it was a bit past time for lunch.
Walking through the sitting room, her foot hit something, sending it across the room. Looking to see what it was, her frustration welled up as she picked up Mr. Whiskers.
“Sarah, how many times have I told you not to leave your things about?” she called as she walked down the hall towards Sarah’s room. She entered Sarah’s room, ready to begin a full lecture, but her daughter was not there.
“Sarah, it’s time for lunch,” she called out, but no reply came.
“Sarah?”
