"The Guitarist of Lincoln, Ontario"

 

As I stepped off the winding dirt path and onto the crumbling driveway, the autumn leaves rustled beneath my feet like a chorus of restless spirits. The sky above was a deep, foreboding gray, casting an eerie shadow over the small town of Lincoln, Ontario. This was the home of Roger, a guitarist with a past as mysterious as the dark forest that surrounded it. 

 

 

Some say he was a musician, others a womanizer, but all agree that there was something off about him. His eyes seemed to hold secrets, secrets that he kept locked away deep within his soul. And now, as I approached his modern and desirable farmhouse, surrounded by a lush garden, a barn, a pond, and a tree grove, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was not right. 

 

 

The door opened with a creak, and there he stood, Roger, with a dark and sinister smile on his face. He invited me in, and as I walked through the rooms, I couldn't shake off the feeling that something was not right. The house was beautiful, but it felt like a trap, a place where the walls watched you and the shadows moved of their own accord. 

 

 

As we sat down in the living room, he began to play his guitar, the notes echoing through the room like a haunting melody. And then, I saw them - the women, all of them, their eyes black as coal, their skin pale as the moon. They moved towards me, their movements slow and deliberate, their eyes fixed on me with an unnerving intensity. 

 

 

I tried to leave, but my feet felt heavy, as if rooted to the spot. And then, I realized that I was trapped, trapped by some unknown force that seemed to emanate from Roger himself. The seemingly idyllic farmhouse was a façade, hiding the true nature of Roger, a man consumed by darkness and evil

 

 

As the night wore on, I found myself unable to escape, unable to tear myself away from the horrors that lurked within those walls. And when the darkness finally closed in around me, I knew that I would never be the same again. For in Lincoln, Ontario, there was a man who held secrets that would make the bravest of men tremble with fear. And I had been foolish enough to get too close to him.

 

Roger's guitar playing grew louder, the notes piercing through my skull like a knife. And then, I saw my own reflection in the window, my eyes black as coal, my skin pale as the moon. I was one of them now, trapped in Roger's twisted world of horror and despair. And as the darkness consumed me, I knew that I would never be free again.