Warning: This work has been rated 16+ for violence and mature content.
*This is the origin of a character from my “Ghost House” stories. This story takes place in the 1930s. The Great Depression was from 1920s-1930s. It’s apart of this story. I don’t know if I did a good job with writing it in the story, so let me know. Gacha Club character designs are on my wall. Enjoy!*
During the 1930s, there lived a man named Anderson. At the bank he worked at, workdays were weeklong, Saturdays included.
It was early Saturday morning, so early the sun had not yet shone. Anderson was all dressed up, ready for work, as employees had to open up early. His wife, Rosalie, slept peacefully in bed, eyes closed delicately.
He kissed her forehead.
Anderson walked out of their room, holding his briefcase, and headed to the children’s room.
He wasn’t surprised to see that their door was slightly open. They were afraid to be in complete darkness, so their door was always open a bit.
Helen and John slept in their beds, Helen with her doll, John with his teddy bear.
Anderson blew them kisses.
He wasn’t leaving for war, he would return home. But it always felt like he would never see his family again.
He walked away. There was a job to do.
Work had been the same thing. People yelling, crying for what they earned, demanding for help. Anderson wanted to save them all, he really did.
But there was nothing to give them. There could only be so much money in the world.
Done with work for the day, Anderson drove back home, to his family.
When he made it back home, he got out of the car and walked to the front door.
Anderson opened the door and stepped inside. He gently closed the door behind him so as not to startle the children.
“I’m home!” Anderson called out.
He walked down the hallway, to the children’s room. Maybe they were waiting for him there.
His foot crunched on something.
Anderson looked down.
Right below him was Rosalie, blood traveling from her back and spreading to the hardwood floor. His boot stood over her limp hand, the thing he stepped on.
Anderson jumped back, startled. Who did it? Who killed his wife? Where were the children? What was going on?
“There’s nothing you can do to save yourself.” A voice whispered in his ear.
Anderson turned around. He didn’t want to believe it. He wanted so badly for it to not be true.
But it was.
Alastor, his best friend, the man standing right behind him, had killed Rosalie.
“I have nothing, Anderson. Nothing. I’m running low on food and water. The very roof over my head? I could lose that. All of it.”
“But you have money. You’re storing it away, for your family. I know you are. I can sense it.”
He wasn’t hiding anything. Anderson was trying to make ends meet with his family as much as Alastor was with his own life. Couldn’t he see that?
“I’m going to end this. I’m going to end all of this.” Alastor said shakily. Just then, Anderson noticed the pointed glass shard in his bleeding hand.
“Alastor, please. This is hard on me just as it is on you. It’s hard on all of us. I’m trying to help as much as I can, but-“
Alastor shoved the glass shard in his eye. Anderson screamed in pain, trying to pull it out, but his vision was getting blurry and strange.
Anderson slipped on Rosalie’s blood, trying in vain to remove the shard.
But it was no use.