In the distance was a minuet, round, dangerly, aged single pearl earring. It was a pale pink, beige colour, whichever slightly different to the atmosphere around. However it’s cracked and dusty smell added to the spooky vibe Tiffany felt.
With confidence, Tiffany approached the window; in her black Stilettos, dark blue skinny jeans, which had an old 1p coin and the single pearl earring she picked off the floor, in her right handed pocket, black and white stripped long sleeve top, with a short- 3 buttoned blazer over the top. Her long, curly, thick, dark brown hair, with a tint of rich red and a berry, tea and orange flower sense, covers her beautiful, complexioned face. Tiffany unusually had three freckles on her left cheek, in a shape of a triangle. She wore little makeup: mascara and a small amount of peach blusher.
While Tiffany was glaring outside the window, she noticed a sudden weather change. It was originally a boiling, blistering, summer’s day, which converted into a showery, stormy evening. She then turned away from the window, as the weather was depressing her; the first thing she observed was the painting, that was at first straight, had been titled to it’s right side. Despite, Tiffany did not think anything of it. She then reached in her right pocket and the single pearl earring had disappeared, Tiffany was extremely stumped and thought she needed a nap. She grabbed a glass of water and headed to bed.
Drip, drop, drip, drop, was the sound Tiffany woken up to. She stepped out of bed and rushed to the tap. As she rinsed her face in the water, Tiffany looked up. In her reflection was an old woman in drag staring back at her. Tiffany rushed to the door, ‘ no way am I staying in this haunted place,’ she thought to herself. The door was locked. She ran to the old fashioned, white window, which was locked too. She grabbed the little red, rooms phone, to ring reception. ‘ Please press 1 if you wish to stay in the room, or 2 if you would like the easy way out.’ There, standing with assurance, behind her, was a rope. Tiffany walked slowly and extremely uncomfortably towards it, she reached her hand out, shaken. She felt the bumpy edges of the rope, mean the rope was. She could see old stains of blood, this wasn’t the first time this rope had been used. Her heart beating rapidly over and over again. ‘No!’ Tiffany shouted at the top of her voice, and grabbed an ancient Vodka bottle and fell on the sofa.
‘Tiffany,’ a voice called. ‘Tiffany,’ ‘who’s there?!,’ Tiffany explained in fear. ‘Someone to help,’ replied the voice, ‘turn around,’
