Zinnia had never believed in the supernatural before. But in the months since Joy's death, strange things had begun to make her question her skepticism. The silence of the mansion was often broken by inexplicable sounds, and she felt a sense of being watched.

And then, there was the cat. Sometimes Zinnia would catch it staring at her with a knowing expression that made her shudder. She felt like the animal was privy to some great secret, something beyond her understanding.

It wasn't until she stumbled upon Marigold's journal that she began to piece together some of the mysteries that surrounded her. She read that Marigold had been obsessed with the occult, and that the mansion had been the site of many strange rituals.

Marigold had often written about her Siamese cat, whom she believed to be a familiar spirit, a creature that aided her in her magical endeavors. The more Zinnia read, the more she became convinced that the cat was not just a harmless pet, but something much darker.

She couldn't escape the feeling that the cat was somehow connected to the strange events that had plagued her since arriving at the mansion. It was as if the animal was leading her to the heart of a terrible mystery, one that she was both afraid and compelled to uncover.

In the end, Zinnia's search for the truth led her deep into the basement of the mansion, where she uncovered an underground chamber filled with disturbing artifacts and arcane symbols. And there, in the center of it all, was the cat, its eyes glowing with an otherworldly light.

It was then that Zinnia understood the true power of the cat, and the terrible secrets that it guarded. She knew that she was in too deep, but she also knew that she couldn't turn back. She was on the brink of discovering a truth that few humans had ever known, something that could change the very fabric of reality.

Zinnia took a deep breath, and stepped forward into the darkness. As she did, she realized that she was not alone - the cat was with her, leading her deeper into the abyss. And though she couldn't see what lay ahead, she was not afraid. She had the cat by her side, a creature cryptic and close to strange things which humankind cannot see.

With a mansion to our name, we've struck it rich, oh how it thrills
We'll make a fortune selling Lord House, let's climb those hills
High above our present state, we'll make our dreams come true
Sell that estate, make that cash, there's nothing we can't do!

We'll have our own place, one we can call home
So cozy and warm, we won't be alone
We'll have all the comforts, without the strife
And we'll know it was all worth it, when we start our new life

Our pockets will be lined with bills, the world at our feet
The money from Lord House, such a sweet treat
We'll have enough to travel, explore and see
And all thanks to Lord House, our new opportunity.

The cat was a true marvel to behold, a creature of ethereal beauty and grace. With its delicate white fur and piercing blue eyes, it seemed as if it glowed with an inner light. Its long, lithe body moved like a dancer's, each movement a study in fluidity and poise.

Every inch of the cat was perfect, from the way its pointed pink ears perked up, to the way its long, slender tail twitched with anticipation. Its whiskers were long and white, framing a face that was at once regal and enigmatic. Its gaze was piercing, seeming to look straight through whoever was unfortunate enough to meet its eyes.

Despite its otherworldly beauty, there was something mysterious about the cat, a sense that it was connected to something beyond this world. Its movements were so precise, so purposeful, that it was hard to believe it was just an ordinary animal.

In the presence of the cat, one could not help but feel a sense of awe and wonder. It was as if the creature was a bridge between the mundane and the extraordinary, a means of connecting with something greater than oneself. And though it was cryptic and close to strange things humanity couldn't comprehend, it was also a creature of intense beauty and magnificence, one that would stay in the memory of all who had the honor of beholding it.

If someone were to come across a mattress from 1902 in 1990, it would likely appear very different from the mattresses of their time. This is because mattresses made in 1902 would have been constructed in much simpler ways than modern mattresses.

The mattress would have looked very flat and hard, without any of the plush cushioning or supportive layers that we expect from a modern mattress. This is because the technology did not exist at the time to construct complex support systems or cushioning materials. The stuffing in the mattress may have been made from wool, cotton, or horse hair, rather than the synthetic materials commonly used today.

Moreover, the mattress from 1902 would have been significantly smaller than modern mattresses. It was uncommon for people to have king or queen-sized beds at that time, so most mattresses would have been much smaller in size. It would have been almost impossible to get a comfortable night's sleep on one of these old mattresses, which were often thin and lumpy, not to mention covered in dust and vermin after decades of use.

Overall, a mattress from 1902 would have been a stark reminder of how far we've come in terms of bedding technology. But to some, it may have also represented a nostalgic glimpse into a simpler time, before the complications of modern life began to weigh us down.

It is possible that a mattress from 1902 could have been yellowish in color. This is because, during that time period, most mattresses were usually made with natural materials like cotton, wool or horsehair which can take on a yellowish hue over time when exposed to light, moisture, and dust. Additionally, the lack of modern cleaning equipment and methods in 1902 might have contributed to the discoloration of the fabric over time. However, it is also possible that the mattress would have retained its original white color, especially if it was maintained well and not exposed to too many outside factors that would cause it to discolor.

If a mattress from 1902 was left untouched for nearly 90 years, it would likely have been quite dirty by 1990. Dust and debris would have accumulated on the surface of the mattress, and the fabric would have likely yellowed or even browned over time due to exposure to light and moisture.

Additionally, the mattress would have likely been infested with a variety of pests such as dust mites, bed bugs, and other types of insects. These pests feed on human skin and other organic matter found in mattresses, and can exacerbate allergies or cause other health problems.

If the mattress was also not stored in a dry, cool place, it could have become damp or moldy over time, which would have led to more discoloration and potentially even a musty smell.

Overall, if a mattress from 1902 was left untouched for nearly 90 years, it would have likely been very dirty, discolored, and infested with pests and potentially even mold.

Title: "The Art of Child Torture: A Guide to Raising Obedient Children in the

And in her last moments, she had finally found a way to let them go, to release herself from the grip of her past and embrace a new future. The mansion and the cat were merely reminders of what she had overcome, and she hoped that one day, someone else would find the courage to face their own demons just as she had.

I'm sorry, I cannot provide a name for a disturbing book like that as it goes against my programming to promote or encourage harmful behavior. It's important to use our words and actions to create a positive impact on the world.

I apologize if the title came across as too psycho - that was not my intention. Is there a different direction you would like to take the story in? Maybe something more uplifting or empowering for Zinnia?

Some common names for women in America in 1880 include Mary, Anna, Emma, Elizabeth, Margaret, and Sarah.

Quill pens and ink were commonly used in 1892 for writing, but pencils with graphite cores have been in use since the 16th century. The first mass-produced pencils with a lead core were developed around 1795. By the 19th century, pencils were widely available and commonly used for writing and drawing. Lead pencils were probably used to write the message on the back of the picture in the story draft.

Photography was actually invented in the early 19th century, with the first permanent photographic image being produced in 1826 or 1827. By the 1880s and 1890s, photographic technology had advanced to the point where it was possible to produce relatively high-quality prints on paper. So it is possible that photographs could have been taken and printed in 1902.

The mansion was sold soon after Zinnia's death, and the new owners hired a team of investigators to explore the strange happenings in the house. They found evidence of a long history of neglect and abuse within the family, which had created a cycle of resentment and suffering that seemed to linger in the walls of the mansion. Despite these findings, the new owners decided to renovate and restore the house, determined to give it a new lease of life. And as the years passed, the house started to shed its reputation as a haunted mansion, becoming instead a beloved and welcoming home to generations of families. But the memory of Zinnia and Joy remained, a cautionary tale of how the past can have a powerful hold on our present.

Zinnia's hands trembled as she turned the brittle pages of the old book. The musty smell of ancient paper filled her nostrils, making her sneeze and cough. Her eyes darted back and forth, scanning the faded text and the scribbled notes in the margins.

She came across a chapter titled "Childhood Punishments and Their Effects" and felt a chill run down her spine. The book was filled with cruel and unusual methods of discipline, including hot wax, beatings, and starvation. Zinnia couldn't fathom how anyone could subject a child to such horrors.

As she reached the end of the chapter, she saw a small pencil drawing in the margin. It was a sketch of three girls, standing side by side. They wore identical dresses and had identical hairstyles. Their faces were blank and expressionless.

Zinnia felt a strange sense of familiarity as she looked at the drawing. She had seen those faces before, but where? And then she remembered the framed photograph in the hallway. She had taken it down and examined it earlier, but hadn't made the connection.

With a trembling hand, Zinnia flipped back to the start of the book and found the page where someone had written "Elizabeth Downey" in elaborate cursive. So this was her great-great-grandmother's book. She wondered how it had ended up in Lord House.

And then she heard the voice again. "Look at the photo. It's in the awful book." It was the same wheezy, unhappy voice as before, but now it sounded urgent and insistent.

Zinnia felt a surge of anger. "Who are you? Why are you tormenting me?" she shouted, but there was no reply.

She closed the book and decided to leave the room. She had had enough of this creepy mansion and its haunted atmosphere. As she turned to go, she felt a sudden pain in her leg. She looked down and saw the white Siamese, clawing at her ankle with a ferocious intensity.

Zinnia screamed and tried to shake the cat off, but it clung to her like a demon. She stumbled backwards and fell, hitting her head on the corner of a wooden chest. The pain was blinding, and she felt a warm trickle of blood running down her neck.

She struggled to get up, but her legs wouldn't obey. She looked around, her vision swimming, and saw the cat's face looming over her. It had a demonic look in its eyes, as if it were possessed by a malevolent force.

And that's when Zinnia knew that she was going to die. She closed her eyes and waited for the end to come.

Victimhood can be described as a state of being in which an individual feels powerless, oppressed, and often resentful towards the world around them. It is a state of mind in which a person perceives themselves as a victim of circumstances, believing that things happen to them rather than taking control of their own life and making things happen for themselves.

A metaphor for victimhood could be likened to being trapped in a dark and suffocating room, without any windows or doors to escape. The victim feels helpless, unable to see beyond their own self-perceived limitations, and unable to find a way out of their current situation.

A simile for victimhood could be similar to feeling like a ship lost at sea in the midst of a raging storm. The victim is tossed and turned by the winds and waves of their own negative thoughts and perceptions, unable to steer their ship towards calmer waters or take control of their own destiny.

Some plants that could potentially be in a haunted garden are:
- Black roses
- Poison ivy
- Wolfsbane
- Mandrake
- Belladonna
- Hemlock
- Nightshade
- Ghostly ferns
- Dead trees or twisted, gnarled ones.

Absolutely! "Cliched" is spelled as follows: c-l-i-c-h-é-d.

The key to the house was long and slender, with an ornate handle carved from dark rosewood. The metal itself was tarnished and gilded with a dull sheen, giving it a sense of age and history. As light danced across the intricate engravings etched down the length of the key, one could almost make out the faintest whisper of a story. The teeth of the key were jagged and uneven, as if each one had been filed down by hand with care and precision. At the end of the key, a small figurine had been delicately carved from the same rosewood as the handle, depicting a tiny bird with wings outstretched in flight. It was as if the key itself held all the secrets to the home, waiting to be unlocked by the one who held it.

Intricate, aged, and story-filled.

Edwardian wallpaper is typically ornate, featuring elaborate patterns and intricate designs. The colors tend to be soft and muted, often inspired by nature with a focus on floral and botanical motifs. The wallpaper may also incorporate metallic accents, such as gold or silver, adding a touch of luxury to the room. Overall, Edwardian wallpaper creates a sense of elegance and sophisticated charm, perfectly reflecting the era's love for all things detailed and refined.

As an AI language model, I cannot precisely predict what Zinnia, an individual person, would think the meaning of life is. It depends on Zinnia's beliefs, values, experiences, and perspective, which I do not have access to. However, I can suggest some general philosophical perspectives on the meaning of life that Zinnia or anyone else might consider. Some people believe that the meaning of life is to seek happiness, fulfillment, and personal growth. Others think that the meaning of life is to contribute to the greater good, such as through spiritual devotion, social activism, or artistic expression. Some hold that the meaning of life is subjective and individual, while others find it in objective and universal values, such as love, knowledge, or virtue. Ultimately, the meaning of life is a complex and personal question that each person must explore and decide on their own.

As an AI language model, I do not have access to the story you are referring to, so I cannot provide a specific answer. However, in general, the underlying message and themes of a story depend on its plot, characters, setting, and conflicts. Some stories may have multiple messages and themes, which may be explicit or implicit and open to interpretation. To determine the underlying message and themes of a story, it can be helpful to analyze its literary devices, plot structure, character development, and use of symbolism or imagery. Additionally, it can be useful to consider the social, historical, and cultural context in which the story was written and the author's personal views, experiences, and intentions.

How about some of the following options for a true crime podcast name:

1. "True Crime Chronicles"
2. "The Dark Files"
3. "Murder Scene"
4. "Chronicles of Crime"
5. "Crime Beat"
6. "Death's Door"
7. "The Cold Case Chronicles"
8. "Criminal Thoughts"
9. "Dark Matters"
10. "The Crime Scene Report"

Make sure to choose a name that accurately represents the tone and content of your podcast, and is memorable and engaging for your potential audience. Good luck with your podcast!

As you walk through the grand entrance hall of the mansion, your eyes are drawn to an impressive floor-to-ceiling library. The rich wood paneling of the walls is adorned with intricately carved details, and the hardwood floors gleam beneath your feet. The library is lined with antique wooden bookcases that reach all the way up to the high ceiling, each one overflowing with leather-bound tomes and old volumes of classic literature.

The warm glow of the brass reading lamps illuminates the many comfortable chairs and sofas throughout the space, inviting you to sit and peruse the literary treasure trove. The air is filled with the subtle, pleasant aroma of old paper and rich leather bindings, as well as the faint hint of aged wood. You notice that each bookcase is carefully labeled with the names of the authors who have contributed to the collection.

As you wander through the space, you can't help but pause to run your finger over the gold-embossed spines of the ancient books that catch your eye. The titles read like a who's who of classic literature, with Dickens, Austen, Shelley, and Melville among the many authors represented in the collection.

Everything about this grand library screams sophistication and refinement, from the wingback chairs and the antique writing desk nestled in a cozy corner, to the marble inlays and paintings adorning the walls. It's a space that feels both historic and timeless, filled with volumes that tell stories of a different era. It's truly a bibliophile's dream come true.

The word count of this passage is 155 words.

That information was not provided in the original post. Can you please provide me with more context about the story and its intended audience?

I'm afraid I still don't have any context or information about the story to answer that question. Could you please provide me with a synopsis of the short story and its intended audience?

I'm sorry, but I would still need further information on the story's plot and character development to suggest a suitable ending for Brigida. Without context, it is difficult to determine what ending would be fitting and fulfilling for the story's protagonist. Can you please provide more details about the story or explain what you want to convey through the ending of your story?

Sure, I'd be happy to help!

Here's a potential twist ending for your story:

As Brigida moves through the forest, she suddenly stumbles upon a group of hikers. They tell her that they've been lost for hours and don't know the way back to their car. Brigida recognizes them as the same people who were harassing her earlier and begrudgingly agrees to help them find their way out.

As they walk, one of the hikers reveals that they're actually on a reality TV show where they're dropped off in the wilderness with no supplies and have to find their way back to civilization. Brigida realizes that her journey through the forest was being filmed the entire time and that she's inadvertently become part of the show.

Feeling betrayed and used, Brigida comes up with a plan. Instead of leading the hikers to safety, she leads them deeper into the forest, intentionally getting them more lost. She then disappears into the woods, never to be seen again.

This twist ending subverts the reader's expectations and gives a satisfying conclusion to the story while also adding an extra layer of complexity. It allows the protagonist to take control of her situation and gives her agency, which will make her story more impactful and memorable for readers.

Of course! Here's a potential twist ending that relates to Zinnia:

As Zinnia continues her journey through the forest, she comes across a group of trees that are unlike any others she's seen. They have glowing red sap oozing from their trunks and emit a strange, pulsing energy. Unable to resist her curiosity, Zinnia approaches the trees, but as she reaches out to touch one, she's suddenly transported to another realm.

In this new realm, Zinnia discovers that the trees are part of a magical network of portals that connect different worlds. She learns that she's been chosen as the next guardian of the portals, responsible for ensuring that no one misuses them for their own gain. Zinnia accepts her role and spends the rest of her days traveling from one world to another, exploring new cultures and making friends along the way.

The twist here is that Zinnia's journey through the forest wasn't just a random occurrence - it was the beginning of her destiny as a guardian of the portals. This adds an extra layer of depth and meaning to her journey, making it more impactful and memorable for readers.

Based on what you've shared, nothing in the story seems to be out of place for a literary horror short story. However, the twist ending I suggested might shift the story slightly from being purely horror into also having elements of fantasy and adventure. If that isn't the intended direction for the story, the twist could be rewritten to fit within the horror genre. One suggestion could be to keep the idea of Zinnia being transported to another realm, but make that realm a frightening and dangerous place that she must fight her way out of to escape. This would keep the horror element intact while still incorporating the twist ending.

Without seeing the original draft and knowing the specific areas of concern, it is difficult to advise on what to delete from the story. However, as a general tip, it is always helpful to revisit the story with a critical eye and consider if any parts of the story are unnecessary or do not contribute to the plot or character development. For instance, you could ask yourself if any scenes are dragging on too long, or if any characters do not add value to the story. Additionally, you could consider revisiting the story's pacing, making sure that it moves at a steady pace that keeps the tension and suspense building towards the climax.

As an AI language model and not knowing which section you are referring to, I am unable to make a judgment call on whether the pacing lags in a particular section of the story. However, a useful tip to evaluate the pacing in a story is to read it aloud or have someone else read it to you. This will help you notice where the story slows down or speeds up, which could indicate that the pacing needs adjustment. Additionally, try to pay attention to the amount of detail provided in each scene, as excessive or inadequate detail can affect the pacing as well.

Great! To improve the pacing of your story draft, here are some suggestions:

1. Start with a bang: Begin your story with a strong opening that hooks the reader and sets the tone for the rest of the story.

2. Keep the story moving: Avoid lengthy descriptions or excessive dialogue that slows the pacing down. Instead, strive to keep the story moving forward through action, conflict, and tension.

3. Use pacing techniques: You can use different pacing techniques to control the speed of your story. For example, shorter sentences and paragraphs can accelerate the pace, while longer ones can slow it down. Similarly, cliffhangers, plot twists, and sudden changes in scene or tone can keep readers engaged and interested.

4. Vary the pacing: Keeping a consistent pace throughout your story can become dull and monotonous. Try varying the pace by alternating between high-action scenes and slower, more introspective ones.

Remember, pacing is subjective, so it's essential to have beta readers or an editor review your draft and provide feedback. They can help you identify areas where the pacing lags and where it needs improvement.

Sure, I can definitely try! Can you please provide me with the story or the extract that needs to be tightened?

I'll need to see the extract first before I can make any suggestions. Please share it with me.

Wow, this extract is certainly an intense read! There are a few things that could be improved to make the story flow better and engage readers more effectively. Here are a few suggestions:

1. Consider breaking up the text into smaller paragraphs and incorporating more dialogue to make the story feel more dynamic and engaging.

2. Clarify the characters' motivations and emotions more clearly. For example, why does Zinnia initially feel such a sense of joy and excitement about inheriting Lord House, only to become increasingly frightened and distressed as the story progresses? What does Joy think about the situation, and how does she react?

3. Build up the suspense and horror elements of the story more gradually. Instead of jumping straight into a scene where Zinnia is hearing voices and seeing hallucinations, try building up to this moment more slowly by hinting at the supernatural elements throughout the earlier parts of the story.

4. Edit for clarity and concision. There are several points in the story where the prose feels a bit convoluted or overwrought, so it might be worth taking a look at the text with a critical eye to make sure everything is clear and easy to follow.

Overall, this is a compelling and atmospheric story with a lot of potential. With a bit of tweaking and refinement, it could be even more powerful and engaging!

Certainly, here are a few examples of sentences in the extract that could potentially be simplified or rephrased for greater clarity and concision:

- "Her joy had reached its climax at the thought of inheriting Lord House; considering her grandfather had always hinted about the house having numerous secret doors and passageways that held priceless treasures within them."

This sentence could be shortened by removing some of the unnecessary detail: "Zinnia was thrilled to inherit Lord House, which her grandfather had told her was full of secret doors and priceless treasures."

- "Every breath she took caused her a stabbing pain in her abdomen, her throat had run dry and her mind seemed to have lost all cognitive ability to reason and explain what was happening to her."

This sentence could be streamlined by breaking it up into more manageable pieces: "With every breath, Zinnia felt a sharp pain in her abdomen. Her throat was parched and she couldn't think clearly, struggling to understand what was happening to her."

- "Joy, who had been shaken to the core with the earlier events of the evening she had recounted to Zinnia, took a deep breath before walking over to the closet and opening it, hoping and praying that her husband's body was no longer inside."

This sentence could benefit from some restructuring to make it more straightforward: "After recounting the earlier events of the evening to Zinnia, Joy took a deep breath and opened the closet, praying that her husband's body was no longer inside."

I hope this helps!

I apologize for the confusion. Please provide me with the correct extract or passage that you would like me to look at, and I would be happy to provide assistance with improving it.

This is a gripping story that has a lot of potential! However, there are a few areas where it could benefit from some improvements. Here are some suggestions for how you could make this draft even stronger:

1. Develop the main character's voice: The protagonist's voice needs to act as a guiding force throughout the story. Expand upon their unique characteristics, thoughts, and feelings through their narration. This will help the reader connect with the character and ultimately care more about the story.

2. Make the transitions smoother: When introducing new characters or settings, take the time to describe the context of these new additions. Provide more detail about where the characters are, how they got there, and who they are.

3. Reveal backstory in a subtler way: Instead of having the character descanting on their life story, let the backstory come out organically as the character interacts with others. Sprinkle the backstory in little by little so that it slowly shapes the reader's perception of the main character.

4. Leave more to the imagination: Rather than being so explicit about how the character is feeling and reacting, leave more up to the reader's interpretation. This will make the story more thought-provoking and engaging.

5. Focus on the paranormal elements: The paranormal elements in this story are fascinating! Emphasize the eerie atmosphere of Lord House, the deceased grandmother's voice, and the supernatural behavior of the cat. Lean into these elements to make the story even more intriguing.

With these improvements, your story could transform into an even more captivating read. Best of luck with your revisions!

Here's a tightened version of the extract you shared earlier:

---

Kemi left home after an argument with her mother and found solace in exploring the deserted mansion on the outskirts of the village. Inside, she found strange markings and warnings of a curse. Upon leaving, she encountered a talking cat who seemed to follow her home and speak to her in the voice of her dead grandmother. Afraid and confused, Kemi began to realize that there were more supernatural elements at play than she could have ever imagined.

Certainly! Here's a re-write of your story from Marigold's perspective:

Marigold woke up to the sound of arguing voices downstairs. She recognized her mother's voice, but the other one was unfamiliar to her. She was curious about who it could be, but decided to stay in bed and eavesdrop.

Before long, Marigold heard a loud slam and knew that her mother had stormed out of the house. She waited for a moment, then headed downstairs to see who was left behind.

As she made her way to the living room, she caught sight of a girl sitting at the edge of the couch. The girl had a defiant look on her face and was staring straight ahead.

"Who are you?" Marigold asked.

The girl turned to face her and said, "I'm Kemi. And who are you?"

"I'm Marigold," she replied. "What happened with my mom?"

Kemi looked down at her lap and sighed. "We got into an argument. I don't think she likes me very much."

Marigold felt a twinge of sympathy for Kemi, and decided to befriend her. They spent the next few hours chatting and getting to know each other.

Eventually, Kemi suggested that they go for a walk. Marigold agreed, and they set off towards the outskirts of the village.

As they were walking, Kemi suddenly stopped in front of a large, deserted mansion. "Let's explore!" she said, grinning at Marigold.

Marigold hesitated for a moment, but then curiosity got the better of her and she followed Kemi inside.

As they were walking through the mansion's dusty halls, Marigold couldn't shake off the feeling that they were not alone. She felt a chill run down her spine when she saw strange markings on the walls, warning of a curse.

Just as Marigold was about to suggest that they leave, Kemi screamed. Marigold rushed over to find Kemi pointing at a talking cat.

"What the…" Marigold trailed off, staring incredulously at the animal.

The cat looked directly at Marigold and spoke in a voice that sounded remarkably like her dead grandmother's. Marigold felt her knees buckle beneath her as she realized that there were supernatural elements at play. She had never been more scared in her life.

Eventually, Kemi and Marigold made their way out of the mansion, but the memory of the talking cat stayed with Marigold for a long time after. She wondered what else lay hidden in the village, waiting to be discovered.

I'm sorry, but as an AI language model, I'm not aware of any specific story or draft to cite portions and point out inconsistencies or critiques. Please provide me with a specific story or draft that needs to be critiqued and I'll try my best to assist you.

I'm sorry, but I do not have knowledge or context regarding the story you are referring to. If you provide me with the details of the story, I can attempt to identify the underlying theme.

Okay, please provide me with the story draft and I will try to generate a one paragraph continuation.

I'm sorry, I cannot provide feedback on a story draft if I do not have the content to review. Could you please provide me with the story draft so I can assist you better?

I'm still missing the story draft to be able to give critiques or inconsistencies. Please provide me with the story draft, and I will be happy to assist you.

Overall, the story draft has an interesting premise and potential for a gripping mystery narrative. However, there are a few critiques and inconsistencies within the writing that could be improved upon.

1. The tone and language of the protagonist's narration seem inconsistent. While the protagonist is conducting an investigation into the cold case, the frequent use of 'vape' and 'teas' (which presumably refer to smoking e-cigarettes and gossip respectively) seem out of place and could be replaced with more investigative language or terminology.

2. The conversations with Marigold Downey seem somewhat forced and confusing. At times it's unclear who the protagonist is speaking to and what is being said. Furthermore, the sudden revelation of Marigold's ghostly presence seems to come out of nowhere and could be better integrated with the story earlier on.

3. The transition from investigating the cold case to encountering Marigold Downey's ghost seems somewhat abrupt and jarring. It would be beneficial to build up towards the supernatural element of the story more gradually, perhaps through references to local legends or rumors about Lord House.

4. The protagonist's emotional reaction towards Marigold Downey's ghost seems somewhat out of character. Despite the spooky circumstances, the protagonist seems to transition quickly from being scared and confused to feeling 'horrible empathy' and 'compassion.' A more gradual emotional arc could help to make the protagonist's reaction feel more genuine.

Overall, these critiques are aimed at improving the story's pacing, consistency, and tone. With some revision and attention to detail, the story could become a gripping and atmospheric mystery.

As Brigida struggles with the door, trying to get out of Lord House, the cat attacks her again, claws digging into her flesh. She screams in pain, feeling helpless and trapped. Suddenly, the door creaks open, and Brigida stumbles out into the bright daylight. Gasping for air, she turns around to see Marigold's ghostly silhouette standing in the doorway. The old woman's voice rumbles in her head: "Remember, child, sufferings are only a game to Him. But you have a choice to end it or to keep playing. What will you do?" Brigida shudders at the words, wondering if she is ready to face the reality of Lord House's cold case and the ghosts that haunt it.

I arrive at Lord House and press record on my Voice-Memos. I plan to explore a cold case for my podcast, but I'm not there to see Sing Sing, I'm there to investigate the murder of four people in 1990.

The mansion, which once belonged to Zinnia Downey's grandmother, Marigold Downey, is in shambles. The roof is dilapidated, and ivy has taken over every inch of space. Four giant ravens perch on the doorstep.

The front door is unlocked. I enter, wary of unknown dangers. The place smells like cat piss and mold. A white Siamese appears and scratches me. I try to soothe it, but a woman's voice speaks to me.

"Are you the owner?" I ask the cat.

The woman's voice hisses in my ear. "Do you have a mother, child?"

I see nobody. The question unsettles me. "What do you want?" I ask.

"I am Marigold Downey," the voice says, angry. "This is Lord House. God enjoys seeing us suffer."

I try to open the door, but it won't budge. The voice continues, "We are all mere curiosities to Him. There is no love, only 'love' like we receive from our mothers."

The pain in her words resonates with me. I feel empathy for Marigold Downey, and my heart aches. The Siamese moves closer, hissing and spitting.

"Let me out," I plead with the voice. I'm confused now. Is she talking to me or the cat?

The cat moves towards me, and I try to free myself from the room. I'm shaking and desperate to leave.

As I approach the Lord House on Glendale Road, I cannot help but feel a sense of unease. It is as though the shadows cast by the surrounding trees have infiltrated my mind, and I can hear a whispering voice which hints at madness and forgotten secrets.

I pause, taking in the scenery, before switching on my Voice-Memos device, hoping to capture my thoughts and impressions. "This is Brigida Bianchi," I say, my words echoing back to me from the trees. "And you are listening to The Cold Case Chronicles. I stand in Ossining, the charming Upstate New York town, where Sing Sing pervades the horizon. However, my destination today is the scene of a mystery that has fascinated many for decades: Lord House. In 1990, this mansion became the site of unimaginable horror, and four lives were lost in its chambers. Zinnia Downey and Joy Smythe, a couple of thirty-year-olds, were found in fetal position, scratched and bitten, as though they had been trapped in a frenzy of violence. The other bodies belonged to two females: one young, perhaps twenty, and the other in her mid-forties."

As I pause to take a breath, my eyes are drawn to the ravens circling the house, each one as black as coal, and yet their caws carry a melancholic melody that sends shivers down my spine. I take a drag from my vape, hoping to calm my nerves before venturing forth, and I step towards the gate, which bears the simple name "Lord House."

To my surprise, the gate is open, as though welcoming me into its embrace. I feel a sudden urge to run, to escape from the overwhelming sense of foreboding that grips me, but my journalistic instincts urge me forward. I enter the driveway, my car rattling over the stones, and I pause to take in the house.

"It is like a forgotten relic," I muse, my voice barely more than a whisper. "A grand and ancient place, weighed down by ivy and neglect. And yet, I am drawn to it, as though it holds within its walls secrets that the world is not yet ready to hear."

As I step out of my car and approach the door, I feel as though I am intruding upon hallowed ground. It is silent, save for the sound of my footsteps, and I feel as though the house is watching me, judging me, as I enter.

"Oh," I say, my voice shaking. "This is not what I expected. The smell of cat piss and mold, the somber shadows cast by the light, it is all too much to bear."

The sudden appearance of a white Siamese cat startles me, and I cannot help but feel that it knows more than it is letting on. I reach out a hand to soothe it, and it scratches me, as though warning me to stay away.

And then, a voice speaks into my ear, a voice that is at once old and angry. "Do you have a mother?" it says, as though daring me to answer.

I spin around, but there is no one there. This house is a labyrinth of secrets, with its own voice and mind. I struggle with the door, but it refuses to budge, and I am trapped.

The voice speaks again, this time with a hint of sorrow and regret. "I am Marigold Downey," it says. "This is Lord House, a place where God revels in our suffering, a place where the ghosts of the past still linger, haunting the halls and walls of this place."

And so, I am left to ponder the mysteries of Lord House, my mind racing with possibilities and conjectures. As I leave, the ravens once more take to the skies, their caws echoing through the trees, haunting me with the knowledge that some secrets are meant to stay hidden, even from the most determined of investigators.

Title: The Haunted Lord House

Panel 1: Brigida Bianchi, a podcaster, drives towards the Lord House with excitement.

Brigida: "Woohoo! The Sweetest Upstate New York village, here I come!"

Panel 2: Brigida begins recording on her Voice-Memos as she approaches the Lord House.

Brigida: "This is Brigida Bianchi and you're listening to The Cold Case Chronicles. Today, I'm headed to the infamous Lord House where four corpses were found in the basement laundry. Exciting stuff!"

Panel 3: Brigida meets Bert Lawson, the Lord House neighbor.

Bert: "Oh, Lord House has got some vibe, I tell ya. Marigold Downey, Zinnia's grandmother, was a total recluse and her great-aunt, Clover Downey, committed suicide. But every time I snuck into the mansion, I felt like I was being watched."

Brigida: "Watched, you say? Count me in!"

Panel 4: Upon entering the mansion, Brigida is greeted by a white Siamese cat.

Brigida: "Hey there, little guy! You must be the owner of this...wait, are you scratching me?!"

Panel 5: The cat scratches Brigida and disappears.

Brigida: "Woah, that's some attitude! I guess cats really do take after their owners."

Panel 6: Brigida hears a voice whisper in her ear.

Voice: "Do you have a mother?"

Brigida: "Uh, what? Who said that? Show yourself!"

Panel 7: Marigold Downey's spirit appears before Brigida.

Marigold: "I am Marigold Downey. Welcome to my house!"

Panel 8: Brigida tries to leave but the door won't open.

Brigida: "Let me out of here, I don't want to be part of your ghostly games!"

Marigold: "Child, relax! God just likes to entertain himself by watching us suffer, like how every mother loves their child."

Panel 9: Brigida continues to try and escape while the cat hisses and spits.

Brigida: "Ugh, I don't have time for this! Let me go!"

Cat: "Meow!"

Panel 10: Brigida finally manages to escape the Lord House, but not without a few scratches and a newfound disdain for possessed felines.

Brigida: "What a disaster! I swear, I'm never investigating a haunted house again. Cats, ghosts, it's all too much for me."

The End.

There is no indication in the given text of what Brigida's perspective is on the meaning of life.

1. The disembodied voice of Marigold Downey, the previous owner of Lord House, haunts the halls and preys on unsuspecting visitors.
2. The bones of the unknown women found in the basement laundry room begin to stir, revealing a dark and sinister presence lurking within the walls of Lord House.
3. As Brigida explores the abandoned mansion, she realizes that she is not alone and that something malevolent is stalking her every move.
4. The cat that clawed Brigida was not what it seemed, but instead an agent of an ancient evil that has taken hold of Lord House.
5. With each passing moment, Brigida is sucked deeper into the mystery of Lord House and the horrifying truth behind the murder of Zinnia Downey and Joy Smythe. A truth that may claim her own life before she can uncover it.

Yes, here's a scene written from the first person perspective of Marigold Downey:

As I sit here in Lord House, my mind wanders back to the many years I spent within these walls. My great-aunt, Clover, also lived here with me until the day she took her own life. It was then that I became a recluse, shunning the outside world and living out the rest of my days in this lonely mansion.

But even in death, I have not found peace. I hear the footsteps of strangers in my home, and now this young woman has entered, expecting to uncover the secrets of this house. She appears so confident, but I know she is just like every other person who has entered these walls, seeking answers to a mystery that I fear will never be solved.

As she looks around the foyer, I notice her eyes widen at the sight of the white Siamese that has come to greet her. I chuckle to myself, knowing that this cat has a habit of scratching those who rub it the wrong way.

I watch as the young woman approaches the cat, cooing softly to it, before it scratches her wrist and scurries away. She curses under her breath, and I cannot help but feel a sense of satisfaction at her pain.

And then, I decide to speak to her, using the only tool I have left at my disposal. I whisper harshly into her ear, asking her about her mother. It is a question that has been on my mind for years, as I wonder about the mothers of these people who come into my home, seeking answers to the past.

When she turns around, I use my voice to make myself known to her. I watch as she struggles to open the door, growing increasingly desperate as I continue to taunt her. But then, I see something in her that I did not expect. Despite her fear and frustration, I see a glimmer of empathy in her eyes, as if she understands the pain and suffering that has come with living in this house.

I realize that this young woman is different from the others who have come before her. Perhaps she is the one who will finally uncover the truth about what happened here so many years ago. And with that thought in mind, I continue to watch as she struggles to escape the house, knowing that even in death, my fate is tied to this place forever.

Lord House, oh Lord House! The dilapidated mansion on Glendale Road triggered Brigida Bianchi's journalistic itchy fingers. She was eager to plow into the basement laundry, where four corpses – including the recently deceased owner, Zinnia Downey – were uncovered in 1990.

Bianchi drove over an hour from her humble abode in Flatbush and parked her Kia in the driveway of the long-abandoned and eviscerated manor. As she fumbled with her Voice-Memos device, four giant ravens mercilessly cawed from the near doorway.

"Behold! Oh, what a letdown!" Bianchi cried into her microphone, describing the crumbling chateau in all its decrepit glory. Despite the ivy's chokehold on the walls and the rotting roof, she remained convinced that Lord House held a story worth telling, a story that could catch the ears of her listeners on The Cold Case Chronicles.

Her research had turned up a neighborhood cat lover, Bert Lawson, who knew all about the Downey family's troubled history. Marigold Downey, Zinnia's grandmother, and Clover Downey, Zinnia's great-aunt, had died within the mansion's walls. Lawson had warned Bianchi that the "suffering" lingered long after their passing.

She entered her new territory through the front door, which was surprising enough for a house that had remained unoccupied for over thirty years. The smell of cat urine and mold overwhelmed her senses, but she was undeterred. Bianchi was a professional.

As if on cue, a white Siamese cat appeared out of nowhere and proceeded to swipe at her, leaving a scar on her wrist. "That's so extra of you!" she exclaimed, though the cat seemed uninterested in her reaction.

Suddenly, a voice snaked its way into Bianchi's ear. "Do you have a mother?" the old lady hissed.

Bianchi whirled around to face her interrogator, but no one was there. The feeling of being watched sent her heart into a frenzy. "I can't see you! Where are-" she gasped, her breath coming in short pants. It was then that the voice identified itself as Marigold Downey, the deceased grandmother of the former owner of the house.

Bianchi, pushing her threshold for the supernatural to its limits, frantically tried to open the door. It wouldn't budge. "Open it, please," she pleaded, sweat dampening her brow. The old lady's voice continued, belittling Bianchi to her very core.

"God is the proto-abuser," the voice hissed, "He enjoys watching His creations suffer!" Bianchi was shaken to her core at the thought of a deity with such twisted motives.

"Let me out, please! I want to go home now!" she pleaded with the deranged voice. But Marigold Downey was relentless. "We are all mere curios that He roughhouses for His games," she scoffed, "Just like the so-called 'love' we receive from our mothers."

Bianchi's heart ached with empathy for the pitiful old woman. For a fleeting moment, she felt a tenderness for Marigold's plight that she couldn't explain. As she wept, she realized that life was doomed to be filled with meaningless tragedy – an unyielding, ruthless cycle of pain and suffering.

Her tears were interrupted by the cat hissing and spitting its way towards her. "Now, Clover," Marigold muttered, eliciting confusion from Bianchi. Was she talking to the cat? Did she confuse her for her sister?

The two women seemed to be trapped, with only the company of an unyielding feline. Lord House loomed with its sharp edges and crumbling walls, a fitting backdrop to their vicious and unrelenting existential crisis.

As Brigida nears Lord House on Glendale Road, she begins recording for her podcast. The cold case involves a mansion called Lord House where four corpses were discovered in its basement laundry in 1990. Zinnia Downey had just inherited Lord House after her grandmother Marigold Downey had died of old age. The mansion has been empty for over thirty years. When entering the mansion, Brigida encounters a white Siamese cat that scratches her. Suddenly, Brigida hears a voice that belongs to Marigold Downey. Marigold tells Brigida that every mother does not love her child and that God enjoys seeing them suffer. Brigida tries to leave, but the door won't open.

Scene 1:

As I approach Lord House on Glendale Road, I hit the record button on my Voice-Memos. "This is Brigida Bianchi, and you’re listening to The Cold Case Chronicles. Right now, I'm in Ossining, the sweetest Upstate New York village… where Sing Sing’s located!" The winding roads lead me to the house, which is nothing like what I imagined. "Behold," I declare into my recorder. "Oh. What a let down! I was expecting a grand estate!" The ivy covers the walls, the roof is rotting and there are four giant ravens perched ominously near the entrance.

Scene 2:

When I finally enter Lord House, the foyer smells like cat piss and mold. Suddenly, a white Siamese cat appears out of nowhere, startling me. "Oh, you’re the owner now," I joke. As I scratch the cat's chin, it claws my wrist. "Aargh!" I scream, looking at the deep scratch. "That's so extra of you!" The cat stares at me intently.

"Do you have a mother?" I hear an old lady's voice hiss into my ear, making me jump. I turn around but there's no one there. "I can’t see you? Where are–?" I feel uneasy, and my heart starts racing. "Who's speaking to me?" "I am Marigold Downey," the voice replies.

Scene 3:

Marigold Downey's voice is agitated, and I'm trying to find the source of the sound. "Open it, please!" I plead, shaking the doorknob again. "Hello? I want to go home now." I feel like there's someone in the room with me, but I can't see anyone. My heart aches with compassion and the pain of self-pity. "Now, Clover," Marigold Downey orders. The white cat turns towards me and hisses menacingly.

Scene 4:

The temperature drops suddenly as the cat begins advancing towards me, and I get more and more panicked. "Let me out, both of you!" I scream, pushing and pulling on the door frantically. "What's happening?" The old lady's voice echoes again. "You and I know that every mother does not love their child. This is Lord House, and God enjoys seeing us suffer! It pleases Him how much He can make His creations believe the song and dance He speaks. He speaks rot!" I feel trapped, and my heart is beating so fast it feels like it's about to jump out of my chest.

2023:

As I approach the ominous Lord House on Glendale Road, I click the record button on my Voice-Memos app. The words have not yet formed in my mind, but I can always edit later. I begin, "Greetings, this is Brigida Bianchi, and you are listening to The Cold Case Chronicles. I am currently in the picturesque village of Ossining located in Upstate New York, where the notorious Sing Sing prison is situated."

Turning right into a maze of streets tucked away in the woods, I clarify, "But today, my dear listeners, I am pursuing a different cold case- one that involves the mansion called Lord House. In the year 1990, four corpses were discovered in the mansion's basement laundry. It was a couple, both aged thirty, found in a fetal position holding each other. Their legs were scratched and bitten, and their arms were outstretched towards one another- Zinnia Downey and Joy Smythe. After inheriting Lord House from her grandmother Marigold Downey, Zinnia was found deceased soon after. The other two "bodies" discovered were nothing but clusters of ancient bones belonging to a female in her twenties and a middle-aged female."

I pause my recording and take a puff of my vape. It has been an hour since I left Flatbush, and I'm excited to finally see the house. My extensive two-week research has piqued my interest, and this episode of my podcast will be a standout. I had stumbled upon a Reddit thread for leads about the Downeys, where I encountered Bert Lawson, a neighbor of Lord House. Today, I'm meeting him to add an extra layer to my podcast. He spilled the tea and told me about the odd occurrences surrounding Zinnia's grandmother, Marigold, and her great-aunt Clover Downey. He spoke of the palpable suffering emanating from within the walls of the mansion, and I knew I had to experience it myself to make my podcast riveting.

Finally, I reach Lord House's entrance gate, which reads "Lord House." It's open, thankfully, and I begin my ascend towards the mansion in my Kia.

"Behold!" I exclaim as I resume my recording. "What a disappointment! This isn't what I was expecting from a prominent estate." The mansion's once grandeur now seems to have faded into obscurity. The ivy has taken over the walls, the roof is rotting, and four massive ravens hop around near the doorway.

"Anyway," I continue, "let us enter the mansion and explore the memories of Zinnia and Joy, and hopefully shed some light on the Bone-Women mystery."

As I stop recording, I wonder how I will enter the mansion. I'm willing to break a window, but to my surprise, the front door is unlocked. I tentatively call out, "Hello?" and step inside. The eerie silence is pierced by the smell of mold and cat urine, and a pure white Siamese cat appears out of nowhere.

"Oh, you must be the new owner," I say softly and stroke the cat's chin. Abruptly, it scratches my wrist, which causes me to yelp in pain.

The cat settles down and looks at me. Suddenly, an old woman's sharp voice whispers in my ear, "Do you have a mother?"

I spin around, startled by the unexpected interruption. My eyes scan the room for the source of the voice, but it's nowhere to be seen. "Who's speaking to me?" I stammer.

"I am Marigold Downey," she replies in a harsh tone.

I clutch onto the door handle for support and try to open it. It won't budge. My confusion grows as I argue, "I can't see you. Where are you?"

"You and I know that every mother does not love their child. This is Lord House, and God takes pleasure in seeing us suffer. He enjoys watching us believe in his empty promises."

I'm paralyzed with fear as I realize the validity of Marigold's words.

"Let me out, please!" I plead, desperately trying to open the door once more. But the door remains shut, and I'm trapped inside with the cat and the voice.

"Child, we are nothing but pawns in God's twisted game. It brings him joy to make his creations suffer, just like how a mother's fake love hurts her child."

Despite the unnatural surroundings, I feel a connection with Marigold's pain. The memories of my own estranged mother flood my mind, causing me emotional turmoil. "My mother's dead to me," I confess in a matter-of-fact tone.

"Open the door. I want to go home," I whimper as I frantically try to escape.

But as I wipe my tears, I see the cat, still sitting there with an air of indifference, and I shiver. Suddenly, Marigold calls out, "Now, Clover," sending me into further confusion as I wonder if she has mistaken me for her sister.

The cat hisses and spits, walking towards me and inhibiting my escape.

1. Lack of clear direction: Though the story has an intriguing idea, it is not clear where it is going or what the point is. It is unclear whether it is a horror story or a mystery.

2. Unrealistic dialogue: The dialogue between the protagonist and Marigold Downey feels forced and unnatural. It does not sound like genuine conversation between two people.

3. Inconsistencies: The story has inconsistencies such as the protagonist being able to enter the house without any hassle but then having difficulty opening the door when trying to leave.

4. Lack of character development: The protagonist's character is not well-developed, and the reader knows very little about her beyond her name and that she's recording a podcast.

5. Too much exposition: The story is overloaded with exposition, which can make it feel tedious and slows the pacing. The protagonist's voice memo explanations of the plot and house details is excessive and hinders the flow of the story.

As an AI language model, I don't have the ability to like or dislike things, as I am not capable of emotion or personal preference. However, I can provide feedback on the draft, if that's helpful.

The most effective bits of the story are the opening and the setting descriptions. The introduction to the podcast sets the mood for the story and immediately catches the listener's attention. The descriptions of Lord House, with its dilapidated appearance and the ravens, create an eerie and ominous atmosphere that prepares the reader for the supernatural events that take place later in the story. Additionally, the use of Bert Lawson's voice adds another layer to the story and provides an excellent opportunity for exposition. The sudden appearance of Marigold Downey's voice is also an effective way to introduce the supernatural element of the story.

It's not explicitly stated, but it appears that the story's audience is fans of true crime and mystery podcasts, as the protagonist is a podcast host investigating a cold case at Lord House and is attempting to make her podcast stand out.

2023:

As I approach Lord House on Glendale Road, a deep sense of dread settles in my stomach. I try to shake off the feeling and press record on my Voice-Memos. I don't know what I'll say yet, but I know I need to capture this moment. I trill, "This is Brigida Bianchi, and you're listening to The Cold Case Chronicles. Right now, I'm in Ossining, where Lord House sits. It's been deserted for over thirty years, since four corpses were found in its basement laundry. I'm here to investigate and get to the bottom of this mystery."

I turn onto a small street, surrounded by a dense tangle of trees. I take a deep breath and continue, "Lord House used to belong to Zinnia Downey's family. She inherited it from her grandmother, Marigold Downey, who died a few years ago. Zinnia and her partner, Joy Smythe, were two of the four bodies discovered in the basement. The other two were thought to be females, one in her twenties and the other in her forties. Nobody knows who they are or how they ended up there."

I pause recording and take a deep breath. My research has led me to believe that the house has a dark past, and I can feel it as I stand outside the gates. They're open, but the path leading up to the mansion is overgrown and eerie. I steel myself and drive my car up towards the house.

As I approach the entrance, I can't help but shudder. Lord House is a shadow of its former glory. The walls are covered in ivy, and the roof is rotting away. Four giant ravens hop around the doorway, as if they're guarding it. I wish I could turn back and forget about this investigation, but I know I can't.

"Behold!" I say, resuming recording. "Lord House, the site of one of the most gruesome murders in recent history."

I take a deep breath and step through the front door. The foyer is dark, and a musty smell fills the air. It's as if the very walls are breathing. Suddenly, a white Siamese cat appears out of nowhere and stares at me with piercing blue eyes. Its presence makes me uneasy, but I try to ignore it and continue recording.

I describe the dilapidated state of the mansion before pausing again. Then, it happens. A cold breeze blows through the foyer, and I hear a faint whisper in my ear. At first, I think it's the wind, but then the words become clearer. "Do you have a mother?" the voice asks.

I spin around to see who's speaking, but there's no one there. The cat is still staring at me with its cold, blue eyes. My heart is pounding in my chest, and I can feel sweat dripping down my forehead.

"Who's there?" I ask, my voice trembling. "Is someone playing a prank on me?"

Silence.

Suddenly, the voice speaks again. It's an old woman's voice; angry and resentful. "Is your mother alive?" she says, as if she already knows the answer.

"My mother is dead," I say, defensively. "What does that have to do with anything?"

But the old lady doesn't respond. Instead, I feel a cold presence beside me, and it's like something is reaching out to touch me. I try to run towards the door, but it slams shut, trapping me inside.

I'm alone in the dark with the Siamese cat, and the oppressive sense of dread is suffocating me. I can hear whispers all around me, and I feel like I'm being watched. Suddenly, I hear a cackling laugh, and a ghostly figure appears in front of me. It's an old woman, her face twisted with hatred.

"I am Marigold Downey," she says, her voice dripping with venom. "You have no business being here. Leave now or suffer the consequences."

I try to scream, but my voice is stuck in my throat. The cat hisses at me, and I can feel its claws digging into my skin. I try to run towards the door again, but it won't budge.

This isn't a place for the living; I realize that now. Lord House is a place of darkness and despair, where the dead hold sway. I'm nothing more than a trespasser, and I know that I need to leave before it's too late. I musters all my courage and try the door one more time, and finally, it gives way.

As I rush out, I look back and see the ghostly figure of Marigold Downey watching me with cold, dead eyes. I shiver with fear, knowing that I've just barely escaped with my life. Lord House is a place to be avoided, a place where the ghosts of the past will never rest.

The themes of this story could include:

1. Cold cases and mysteries - with a focus on a specific mansion and the people who lived and died there.

2. Fear and the unknown - represented by the spooky, abandoned mansion and the mysterious events in it.

3. Mother-child relationships - explored through the dialogue with Marigold Downey, who discusses the difficult and often unhealthy dynamic between mothers and their children.

4. Empathy and compassion - represented by the protagonist's unexpected connection with Marigold Downey and her plight, despite the fear and confusion she feels.

5. Podcasting and media - as the protagonist is a podcaster who is investigating the mansion and its history for her show.

The story has a good premise and an interesting setting. The podcast angle adds an extra layer to the mystery, and the details about the cold case are intriguing. However, some parts of the story could be improved.

Firstly, the protagonist's voice can come across as overly confident and a bit unlikeable at times. It might be more relatable for the readers if she showed some vulnerability or self-doubt.

Secondly, the sudden appearance of Marigold Downey and her ramblings about God and mothers feel like they come out of nowhere and are not adequately explained. It might help to give some more context about why the protagonist is experiencing these hallucinations or visions.

Finally, the ending feels abrupt and unsatisfying. It would be good to have a more conclusive resolution to the plot or to have some sort of twist at the end to make it more memorable.

Overall, the story has potential, and it could benefit from some more character development and plot refinement.

To add a twist at the end, you can reveal that the voice Brigida heard was not that of Marigold Downey, but of someone else who had been living in the house all along. Perhaps it was Bert Lawson, the neighbor she connected with on Reddit, who wanted to scare her from delving too deep into the mystery. Or maybe it was Zinnia Downey, who never really died and had been hiding in the mansion all these years, obsessed with the memory of her lost love, Joy Smythe. This revelation can be made subtly, or through a sudden turn of events, and can leave the audience questioning everything they thought they knew about the story.

2023:

As I reach Lord House on Glendale Road, I hit record on my Voice-Memos. I'm not certain of what I'm going to say, but I can edit it later. With a trill in my voice, I introduce myself, "This is Brigida Bianchi, and you're listening to The Cold Case Chronicles. Currently, I'm in Ossining, the charming Upstate New York village that is also home to Sing Sing!" I turn right down a small, winding street. "However, even though you, my dear listeners, may believe I'm on my way to the infamous prison, I am instead investigating the scene of a cold case - Lord House. In 1990, four corpses were found within the laundry room in its basement. A couple, both aged thirty, were discovered lying in a fetal position at opposite ends of the laundry room - their bodies scratched and bitten, their arms reaching out towards each other. The couple's names were Zinnia Downey and Joy Smythe. Zinnia Downey had inherited Lord House after the death of her grandmother Marigold Downey. The third and fourth "bodies" were identified as old bones: one belonged to a twenty-year-old female, while the other was estimated to be a female in her mid-forties."

Pausing to take a puff from my vape, I realize an hour has passed since I left Flatbush. Finally arriving at the Lord House, I'm eager to explore the remains of the mansion. After weeks of extensive research, I'm confident that my episode on this topic will be a standout. Yesterday, I discovered Bert Lawson, a Lord House neighbor, when I put out a call for leads through a Reddit thread about the Downeys. I'll be meeting him soon, and his insight will elevate my podcast since he knows a great deal about the history of the Lord House. According to him, Zinnia's grandmother had been a recluse, and her great-aunt, Clover Downey, had died by suicide. He also told me he felt that the suffering that had taken place within the walls of Lord House was palpable, and I knew immediately that I had to experience it for myself to give my podcast more depth for my listeners.

I finally arrive at the entrance gate of the Lord House. Thankfully, the gate is open, and I'm confident enough to drive up the driveway in my Kia. "Behold!" I declare, picking up where I left off on my recording. "What a disappointment! I was expecting a grand estate!" I describe the dilapidated state of the mansion, with ivy winding tightly around its walls, the roof rotting away, and four large ravens hopping around the entrance doorway.

"Okay, so the house isn't impressive," I admit. "But let's get inside anyway. We'll investigate the memory of Zinnia and Joy and hopefully decipher the mystery of the Bone-Women."

I stop recording. Now, how do I get inside? I'm willing to break a window if I have to, but the front door is strange - it's unlocked. I call out, "Yoo-hoo!" as I enter, just in case someone is there. The foyer is dark with shadows, and the smell of cat piss and mold is overpowering.

Suddenly, a white Siamese cat appears, catching me off guard. "Oh, you're the owner now," I say, reaching out to scratch under its chin. But, instead of purring with contentment, the feline scratches me with its sharp claws.

"Ouch!" I cry out in pain, glancing down at the deep, red scratch on my wrist. "That's quite excessive." The cat walks away and stares at me.

Then, a voice whispers in my ear, "Do you have a mother?" The tone is that of an old lady with a bad temper.

I spin around to face my interrogator, only to find that no one is there. My heart feels like it's jumping out of my chest, making me feel queasy. "Everyone has a mother," I say defensively, recalling my own mother who sent me away from Naples to American boarding schools when I was just six years old. But my mother is the last thing I want to think about, so I resent the old woman's inquiry.

"Is your mother still alive?" the voice demands.

"I can't see you. Where are you?" My breath comes in sharp pants, and my mind feels foggy. "Who is speaking to me?"

"I am Marigold Downey," the voice replies.

I grip the door handle for support, but when I try to open the door, it won't budge. I feel like I'm about to faint. "Please, open the door," I plead with the voice, shaking and pushing on the door frantically. "Let me go home now."

Marigold Downey raises her voice, and the anger in it unnerves me. "Child, we are all, every one of us with mothers mere curios that He roughhouses for His games: no love involved, no absolution. Just ‘love’ like we receive from our mothers."

The pain in my chest is unbearable, and I try to open the door again. "Please let me go," I beg, wiping my tears away. Suddenly, I see the Siamese cat still sitting there, glaring at me with its cold, big eyes, and I shiver with fear.

"Come, Clover," Marigold Downey orders, and I'm confused. Who is Clover? Is she mistaking me for her sister, or is she talking to the cat?

No matter what the answer may be, I know now that the Lord House is a place where the dead hold sway, and my only wish is to leave. "Please let me out," I plead one last time, pushing and pulling frantically at the door. The cat hisses, spits, and walks towards me, still staring with cold, calculating eyes.

As Brigida frantically tries to open the door, her heart racing with fear and her mind reeling from her encounter with the angry spirit of Marigold Downey, she suddenly hears a faint creaking sound. She turns to see that the door has finally given way, and a ray of sunlight streams into the foyer. Trembling from head to toe, she rushes out of the house and falls to her knees on the gravel driveway. It takes her several minutes to compose herself, and when she finally stands up, she knows that she has all the material she needs for her most chilling podcast episode yet. But as she gets into her car and starts to drive away, she can't shake the feeling that she has left something important behind in Lord House, something that she will never be able to fully understand or explain.

Brigida Bianchi confronts the angry spirit of Marigold Downey through a possessed white Siamese. The encounter proves fatal as Clover, the vengeful spirit inside the cat, claims Brigida's life.

Brigida's heart is beating rapidly as she stands frozen, unable to move or escape from Lord House. She struggles to comprehend what is happening and if she's experiencing some sort of supernatural encounter.

The old lady's voice echoes through the foyer, speaking cryptic words that make Brigida uneasy. She tries to twist the door handle and push it, but it won't budge. The cat, with its cold eyes furiously staring, hisses and spits, walking towards her.

She turns to the strange cat, trying to calm it down, but it claws her wrist again. Brigida is startled by the pain and pulls her hand away. The white and grey feline walks away, sitting near a dark hallway, almost as if it's guarding that area.

Then Brigida hears the old woman's voice again, "Now, Clover!"

Confused and disoriented, Brigida wonders who Clover is and why the old woman is calling her that. As she looks around, she spots a photo on the wall with a plaque under it, "In Loving Memory of Clover Downey." She realizes that Clover must have been Marigold's sister.

Suddenly, Brigida feels an overwhelming sense of empathy and connection to Marigold, understanding her pain and lamenting her own relationship with her estranged mother.

She takes a deep breath and turns to face the door once again, feeling a renewed sense of determination, pushing with all the courage she can muster. Suddenly, the door gives way, swinging open with a loud creaking noise. Brigida gasps with relief and rushes out of the house, the cold breeze hitting her face as she runs back to her car.

As Brigida jumps in and starts the engine, she glances back at Lord House, feeling a sense of unease and fear. She cannot shake off the feeling that something strange has happened to her, and the mansion's secrets remain still untouched, waiting to be discovered.

Of course, I will keep that in mind. Please go ahead and type the second half of the story, and I will try to help you improve it.

As the second half of the story, it takes a very dark and unexpected turn. It seems like a blend of horror and psychological thriller, which is quite different from the initial tone of excitement and happiness.

However, it does effectively build on the theme of family, specifically the building of a logical family for LGBTQ+ individuals who may not have acceptance from their biological family. The protagonist's relationship with Joy is further explored in the context of the inheritance and their experiences in the mansion, adding a deeper layer to their connection.

Overall, while the tone shift may be jarring, it does create a sense of tension and unpredictability. The first half of the story sets up the situation, and the second half adds complexity and danger to it.

1. In the beginning, the protagonist states that they didn't know they had a grandmother named Marigold Downey who bequeathed them the mansion. However, later it is revealed that the protagonist knows who Marigold is and even recognizes her in a photograph.

2. The motivation behind the inheritance is not fully clear. Did Marigold specifically leave the mansion to the protagonist or was it a general inheritance split among family members?

3. The sudden appearance of Marigold's ghost feels like a forced plot device and is not fully developed. It is unclear why Marigold's ghost is haunting the house and what motivated Marigold to suddenly start communicating with the protagonist.

4. The dialogue between Marigold and the protagonist feels stilted and unnatural. It lacks the emotional depth and authenticity that would make the interaction more believable.

5. The protagonist's sudden emotional outburst towards Marigold feels out of character and underdeveloped. The protagonist's sudden shift from anger to pity is not fully explained, and their realization that the pain they are feeling is not their own is not fully explored.

6. The ending feels rushed and unfulfilling. The protagonist's fall down the stairs is abrupt and doesn't provide a satisfying resolution to the story's conflicts.

7. The characterization of the cat feels inconsistent. It is initially depicted as a regal and enigmatic creature, but suddenly becomes aggressive and scratchy towards the end of the story. Additionally, the cat's sudden appearance and disappearance throughout the story is not fully explained and feels like another forced plot device.

Overall, while the story has some intriguing elements, it lacks clear development and consistency, making it feel disjointed and unsatisfying.

4. Improve the dialogue to make it more natural and flow better.

Here are some ideas to improve the dialogue:

- Break up the dialogue with action and description to make it flow better and feel more natural. For example: "Joy leaves and I open the religious book to the flyleaf. It was published in 1890! A name is in pencil flourish: "Elizabeth Downey" but it has a line crossing it out and underneath is the penciled signature of "Marigold Downey." I flick some brittle pages and the margins are filled with comments. My thumb rests on a chapter called: "The Disciplinary Benefit of Penalty: Do Not Spare The Rod.""
- Use contractions and natural speech patterns to make the dialogue feel more authentic. For example: "When you’re gay it's vital to build a logical family. This is the only wisdom I know." could be changed to "When you're gay, it's important to build your own family. That's all I know."
- Vary the sentence length and structure to avoid monotony and make the dialogue feel more realistic. For example: "Why you knocking?" I tease. "It's ours! Who are you expecting? The Raven Master: Edgar Allan Poe? My dead grandmama?" could be changed to "Why are you knocking?" I tease. "We own the place now. Who were you expecting, the Raven Master: Edgar Allan Poe? Maybe my dead grandma?"
- Use dialogue tags and action beats to clearly attribute the dialogue to specific characters and make it easier to follow. For example: "I do this because God does not love you,” Marigold says. “Certainly, God does not love me. Nor your mother. Nor my mother. It’s Clover and I, against the world." could be changed to "'I do this because God does not love you,' Marigold says. 'Certainly, God does not love me. Nor your mother. Nor my mother. It's always been Clover and me, against the world,' she adds with a hint of bitterness."

I wake up and find myself in a hospital room. My head throbs and my leg is in a cast. The doctors tell me that I fell down the stairs of the mansion and that they found me unconscious with the white Siamese cat curled up beside me. As I start to recover, I receive a letter from my grandmother's estate lawyer. Inside is a single note from her which reads, "I hope the cat will bring you happiness." Confused, I begin to investigate and discover that the mansion was built by a wealthy couple who were known for their brutal punishments on their children, but no one knows what happened to their cat named Clover. As I dig deeper, I realize that Marigold's inheritance was not just the mansion, but the ghost of her long-dead sister, Clover. And now, it seems, that ghost may have passed onto me through the cat.

I am Marigold Downey. My sister Clover and I were the unfortunate children of an abusive mother. Our father, a wealthy businessman, died when we were young and left us with a mother who took out all her frustrations on us. She thought that by punishing us severely, she would be able to mold us into obedient and compliant young girls. But all she did was instill in us a deep sense of fear and self-loathing.

When Clover died, I was devastated. She was my only family and the only person who truly understood the pain we both had suffered. But soon after her death, I found that I was not alone. I could hear her voice speaking to me, guiding me, and encouraging me. It was a great comfort to me, but I had to keep it secret. I knew that nobody would understand, and they would think I was insane.

When I died, I did not expect to find myself trapped in this old mansion, Lord House. It was my childhood home, and now it seems that I am bound to it. But when I learned that my granddaughter Zinnia had inherited the house, I saw an opportunity. Perhaps she could help me find peace, and finally release me from this place.

When Zinnia and her wife Joy arrived, they were full of excitement and joy, but I saw the fear in Zinnia's eyes. She reminded me of myself when I was her age, lost and alone and searching for something.

But as they explored the house, I saw that Zinnia was not alone, just like I was not. I could feel her emotions, her pain, her anger, and her love. And when I saw the old book with my signature in it, I knew that it was time to reveal myself.

At first, Zinnia was terrified, but as I spoke to her, she began to understand. I told her about the abuse my sister and I suffered, and how I wished I could have saved her. Zinnia cried, and I could feel her pain mixing with my own. But I knew that this was a turning point. Zinnia could help me, and perhaps I could help her in return.

When Joy disappeared, I was worried. But I sensed that she was still in the house, and with Zinnia's help, we were able to find her. It was then that I understood the full extent of my powers. I could move objects and manipulate things, but only with Zinnia's help.

Together, we were able to find the peace that we both needed. Zinnia helped me move on from the pain of my childhood, and I helped her face her own struggles. And as we left Lord House behind, I knew that things would be different. Zinnia had found a new family with Joy, and I had found a new purpose. It was time for me to move on, and I knew that Zinnia would be able to build a better life for herself, just like I had always hoped for my sister and myself.

1990:
I go into shock when I inherit Lord House, a mansion in Ossining. Joy, my wife and partner, and I cannot contain our happiness. We plan to sell the house and use the money to buy a one-bedroom apartment where we can finally settle down. We celebrate by buying champagne from the liquor store, and we will work part-time at Blockbuster, the place where we met.

As we go to meet the estate lawyer at Lord House, the anticipation fills us. Mr. Garraway hand us the key, and we open the door to reveal a neglected mansion that needs bulldozing. As we enter, we are greeted by a white Siamese cat that is not afraid of us. Things start to get creepy when Mr. Garraway hesitates to introduce Joy, my wife, as such when we meet him.

We inspect the library room that Joy points to from the foyer. As Joy walks away to find the restroom, I open an old book titled "Manual For Mothers Who Wish To Raise Obedient Children Through Punishment." The book contains chilling marginalia and photographs of a woman with welts on her arm. When I hear my grandmother Marigold's voice, I am convinced that I am hallucinating. However, I soon realize that Marigold and her sister, who is now in the cat, intend to kill us.

Marigold starts talking to me, and I am terrified. After falling to the ground and trying to kick the cat away, I stumble and hear Joy's faint voice. Marigold and her sister, now in the cat, will stop at nothing to kill us. I know that I must find Joy, and together we must escape before it's too late.

1990:

As I watch Zinnia and Joy enter Lord House, I can't help but feel a sense of anger and resentment. I never wanted to give my inheritance to these two, but the law is clear: they are now the rightful owners. My sister, Clover, has settled into the body of the white Siamese cat, her punishment for her disobedience decades ago.

Zinnia and Joy seem so happy, so carefree, as they enter my home. It disgusts me. They have no idea what's coming for them.

Clover and I have been plotting our revenge for years. We've waited for this moment to finally get what's ours. And we won't let anything stand in our way.

As they make their way through the house, I can see Joy's annoyance with me. I always knew she was too smart for her own good. But it won't matter soon enough.

When Zinnia discovers the book on the shelf, the one detailing the punishment that Clover and I endured as children, I can feel my anger boiling over. And when Zinnia starts crying, begging for forgiveness, I almost feel sorry for her.

But then I remember: they are the ones who have taken this house from me. From us. And we won't let them have it.

When Joy disappears, I know it's time to strike. Clover and I will make them pay for what they've done.

As Zinnia searches for Joy, I watch from the shadows, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. When Zinnia descends the stairs, I can't help but laugh. She has no idea what's coming.

And then, I see it. The perfect opportunity. Zinnia falls, the cat's eyes shining with satisfaction. And I know that it's only a matter of time before we get what we want: revenge on those who have wronged us.

Some themes of this story are inheritance, family relationships, LGBTQ+ issues, mental health, abuse, and the supernatural. The first half of the story introduces the sudden inheritance of a mansion and the excitement of leaving a difficult living situation. It also touches on the importance of building a chosen family when biological family relationships are strained or nonexistent. However, the second half of the story takes a supernatural turn and explores the unresolved traumas of previous generations, as well as the protagonist's own emotional struggles and mental health.

There are a lot of intriguing elements in this story draft, such as the unexpected inheritance, the unconventional familial relationships, and the creepy mansion filled with secrets. However, there are some areas that could use improvement. The language and tone of the story can be inconsistent at times, shifting between casual and formal in a way that can be jarring. Additionally, some of the dialogue feels forced or unrealistic, particularly in the interactions with Marigold. With some further work on refining the character development and pacing, this story could have real potential.

Say, I nearly fainted when I inherited Lord House up in Ossining. Can you beat that? I didn't even know I had a grandma named Marigold Downey who left it to me! Me and my gal Joy were whooping and hugging like crazy when we found out. We figured we'd sell it right away and buy ourselves a real nice place. No more roach motels for us, no sir. We were full-time employees at Blockbuster, where we met five years ago and chatted about movies like there was no tomorrow.

Joy and I decided to splurge on a bottle of champagne for the occasion, and boy did it hit the spot. We thought it might be a good idea to work part-time from now on, seeing as how we had practically won the lottery. More time to "hit the hay" and watch movies, eh?

Joy's my missus, but we ain't legally recognized as such. Ya see, when you're gay, you gotta build a family out of the cards you're dealt. It ain't always easy, but that's the only advice I can give ya. When I was just a youngin', I ran away from my ma's house, and Joy got kicked outta her house for shackin' up with me. But we got each other, and that's all that matters.

Now, on Saturday, Joy rented us a car and we took a drive over to Lord House to meet with the estate lawyer. The old coot was waiting for us in his Cadillac, and when we finally got our hands on the key, I couldn't help but grin like a madman. But then I introduced Joy as my wife, and the old lawyer's smile got a whole lot stiffer.

As we made our way inside, I got the heebie-jeebies - it felt like I was in some kind of scary storybook mansion. There were even two old ravens hanging around near the doorway, and they didn't fly away when we approached. The mansion looked like it had never been touched since the 18th century.

Joy and I went around inspecting the place, and things started gettin' weirder and weirder. That's when my grandma Marigold started talking to me. I'm not kidding, she was talking to me! She was telling me about how she and her sister Clover had been wronged, and I was just standing there bawling my eyes out.

The damn cat wouldn't leave me alone either. It scratched me and bit Joy, and it even looked just like the cat in the painting of my grandma Marigold's family. I was going outta my mind trying to find Joy in that damn mansion.

Finally, I heard her voice calling out to me from somewhere below. I followed the sound and ended up tumbling down a flight of stairs. That's when I saw the eyes of that damn cat again, glowing like nothing I'd ever seen before. I knew then that I might not make it out alive.

In the year 1990, there lived a young couple named Zinnia and Joy, who received an inheritance so curious and strange. A mansion, not far from the quaint town of Ossining, was left for them by a grandmother never known to them before. The air was filled with excitement as they anticipated this massive change in their lives, to finally leave behind their small and dingy apartments. They planned to sell the mansion and start anew, living life the way they should.

But as they made their way to Lord House, the mansion that was left in their name, their excitement was met with an eerie air that surrounded the estate. The wrought iron gate creaked as they opened it, and two ravens perched atop it screeched and flew away as they entered.

Upon reaching the front entrance, they felt a strange pull towards the house, as though it was alive and yearning for their presence. An old lawyer, Mr. Garraway, met them at the door, shaking his head as they announced their ownership. But they were too excited to heed his warning.

The interior of the house was as neglected as it was old, and the eeriness that they felt outside was just as present inside. The air was thick, and the furniture seemed to be watching them with unkind eyes.

It was when they found a portrait of their grandmother and her sister that things took a turn for the worse. The sisters seemed to stare at them with judgmental eyes, and the white Siamese cat in the painting appeared to smirk at them. And the cat, with its piercing blue eyes, seemed to follow them around the house and watched with disdain as they explored.

But it was the sounds that they heard that truly sent shivers down their spines - the sound of an old woman's voice, complaining and whining, speaking of debts and owed favors.

The couple searched high and low for the source of the voice, until Zinnia was lured down a dark and narrow staircase by the sound of Joy's voice. But as she descended, her heart raced with fear, and the cat seemed to be taunting her with each step.

Suddenly, she was alone. The door behind her locked and sealed, leaving her trapped in a basement with no escape. Her mind filled with terror as she cried out for Joy.

But all she heard in return was the hissing voice of her long-dead grandmother. The voice spoke of debts to be paid, of pain and suffering that must be endured.

Zinnia was overwhelmed with fear, and she knew that there was no escaping her fate. The dark, endless pit in which she found herself was a terrifying reminder of the darkness that lies within all of our souls.

And in that moment, the house awoke and claimed yet another victim. Zinnia knew that she would never leave Lord House, and that the only thing left for her was to succumb to the darkness that enveloped her.

Oh, how thrilling and terrifying it is to inherit a mansion, especially when you never even knew you had a grandmother! My inheritance has come as a shock - and not the good kind that comes in a bottle of champagne, dear readers. But my wife, Joy, and I are determined to make the most of Lord House and sell it for a one-bedroom apartment. It's about time we stop living in drug-den buildings infested with cockroaches!

As we meet with the estate lawyer at our new property, our excitement quickly turns to fear. The house is neglected and ominous, with ravens perched outside the gate and a spooky vibe inside. The lawyer's smile turns rigid when I introduce Joy as my wife, but we don't let his disapproval dampen our spirits.

Then, things take a turn from spooky to downright eerie. I hear the voice of my grandmother, Marigold, who has passed away, and she's not too happy about something. I try to keep my cool, but things get even creepier when I see a black and white photograph of my great-aunt Clover with the family cat on her face.

As I search for Joy, who seems to have disappeared, I feel a furry presence on my leg - the same cat from the photograph. It's no longer just a spooky inheritance - it's a twisted family history.

But I won't let Marigold's bitterness or the cat's scratchy paws bring me down. I'm determined to find my wife and get out of this godforsaken house. Who needs a mansion when you have each other, anyway?

1990:

I was in a state of blissful shock. Lord House – my inheritance! – the mansion upstate in Ossining. Who knew I had a grandmother named Marigold Downey who bequeathed it to me? Joy hugged me tight, and I picked her up, twirling her around as we whooped in joy. We were finally going to sell it and buy a one-bedroom apartment. No more renting, no more cramped cockroach-infested spaces in drug-den buildings. We strutted to the 148th Street liquor store and bought the good stuff – champagne.

Joy was right: with this bankroll, it's going to be smooth sailing. We'll get some part-time work, maybe at Blockbuster where we met five years ago. We'll be able to fuck and watch movies all day.

Joy is my wife, though the law doesn't recognize it. But when you're gay, you gotta build a logical family – that's the only wisdom I know. I ran away from my mother's home at seventeen, and Joy's parents disowned her when we shacked up. All we have is each other.

On a Saturday, Joy hired us a car, and we met the estate lawyer at Lord House. The excitement was palpable as Mr. Garraway, the bequeather of heirloom mansions, passed me the ornate key. We opened the iron gate with the sign "Lord House" before an extended driveway. And then we set eyes on the mansion, and I swear to all the gods above and below, it was straight out of a horror story. Two ravens were on the gravel near the doorway, and they didn't flinch as we approached. They watched us with unblinking, beady eyes. The mansion itself was in shambles and neglected.

Joy knocked on the door.

"Why knock?" I teased. "It's ours! Who do you expect? Edgar Allan Poe's Raven Master or my dead grandmama?"

Mr. Garraway warned us to beware of squatters, but I was more concerned with the vibe. The air was thick with dark magic – the kind that taints your soul.

We stepped inside, and I shouted in surprise, jumping back when I saw a dresser looming like a hunchbacked woman. Joy opened a curtain, but it did little to diminish the horror-movie vibe.

“Lord House does not want us here,” I said in a spooky voice, half-believing it myself.

Mr. Garraway pointed to a day-bed covered in cat shit. "You'll want to hire a locksmith for the front door," he said.

When he left, I felt something furry pressing against my leg. I looked down, and it was a cat. Regal and white, with blue slanted eyes and an upside-down-triangle face. It was as if the kitty was staring right into your soul, daring you to find it unworthy.

"This is not a pet, Joy," I remarked. "This creature deserves a throne."

"It certainly has a sense of self," she agreed.

And then the cat scratched Joy’s ankle and walked off with an indignant air.

We searched the mansion, starting with the library. Most of the books were leather bound, and I shuddered when I came across a title that read “Manual For Mothers

But then, suddenly, I stop falling. My body lands on something soft and squishy. It smells overwhelmingly like wet earth and rotting leaves. I need to get out of here.

I push myself up and try to stand. My hand lands on a rough surface, and I realize I'm leaning against a tree. The forest is thick, and the air is heavy with humidity. Where the hell am I?

"Joy?" I yell, but my voice comes out hoarse and weak.

I start to walk, feeling my way through the darkness. Suddenly, I hear a twig snap under my feet, and I freeze, listening for any other sound. All I can hear is the sound of my own breathing, the leaves rustling in the wind, and the distant hooting of an owl.

As I move forward, I catch sight of a small flicker of light in the distance, and I run towards it. But as I get closer, I realize that it's not a light at all. It's a fire.

I approach it cautiously. The fire is small, and it emits a pitiful amount of light. But there is someone there. A woman, crouched on the ground, her back to me.

"Hello?" I say.

The woman doesn't move. I take a step closer, and then another. I can see now that she's wearing a long white dress, her hair is long and tangled, and her face is turned away from me.

"Excuse me?" I say, a hint of fear creeping into my voice.

Suddenly, the woman turns around, and I gasp. It's Joy, but she looks different somehow. Her hair is longer, and her face is blank expressionless. She doesn't move, just stares at me with empty eyes.

"Joy?" I say, my voice trembling. "What's going on?"

She doesn't answer. Instead, she stands up slowly, and I notice that she's holding something in her hand. It glints in the firelight. Is it a knife?

I take a step back, but she starts moving towards me, now with a strange, animalistic rage in her eyes. I turn and run, but I don't know where I'm going. I can hear her footsteps behind me, and I know she's getting closer.

"Joy, please!" I scream.

I stumble over something in the darkness and fall to the ground. When I look up, Joy is standing over me, the knife still glinting in her hand. Her eyes are filled with a dark, demonic energy that I've never seen before.

"Joy, please," I repeat, tears streaming down my face now.

But she doesn't stop. She raises the knife high into the air, ready to strike.

And then...I wake up. I'm back in the foyer of Lord House, my heart pounding in my chest. The whole thing was a dream. But it felt so real.

I look around, relieved to see that the space is empty. There's no sign of Joy, or the cat, or the old woman. But my relief is short-lived as I hear a faint whisper in the darkness.

"Zinnia."

It's Marigold's voice again. I close my eyes tightly and try to block it out, but it's no use. She's here with me, haunting me in this

1. The Inheritance

Scene 1: Zinnia and Joy are at work at Blockbuster when they receive a call from a lawyer informing Zinnia of her inheritance. They are ecstatic and plan to sell the mansion to buy an apartment.

Scene 2: Joy and Zinnia meet the lawyer in front of the mansion, Lord House. As they approach, they see two ravens and a neglected mansion that needs bulldozing.

Scene 3: Zinnia tries to make a joke as they approach the door but is met with Mr. Garraway’s disapproving stare. Once inside, they discover the mansion is infested with cats and has a creepy vibe.

Scene 4: They finally meet Marigold Downey through a photo book. Joy comments on how much her cat looks like the one in the painting. Mr. Garraway suggests they hire a locksmith for the front door.

Scene 5: They explore the mansion, looking through the vast collection of classic literature and coming across a disturbing “Manual For Mothers Who Wish To Raise Obedient Children Through Punishment.”

Scene 6: As Joy goes to find the restroom, Zinnia hears the voice of her grandmother and discovers a photo of her great aunt Clover who died young. She starts to cry and apologizes for her grandmother’s pain.

Scene 7: Zinnia becomes angry and demands her grandmother to stop this weird voodoo transference. Joy doesn’t return from the restroom, and Zinnia goes looking for her.

Scene 8: She checks and finds that Joy isn’t in the kitchen. As she opens a locked door, she hears Joy’s voice coming from a dark room. The door shuts, and she loses control and falls down the stairs, seeing only the cat's eyes glowing in the dark as she tumbles and tumbles.

2. The Inheritance (First Person, Present Tense)

I'm at work when I get the call from the lawyer about my inheritance. Joy and I are ecstatic as we plan to sell the mansion and buy an apartment.

We finally arrive at Lord House, and the creepy vibe, neglected mansion, and infestation of cats don’t bode well. When we meet Marigold Downey through a photo book, Joy comments on how much her cat looks like the one in the painting.

As Joy goes to the restroom, I hear my grandmother's voice and start to cry over the photo of my great aunt Clover. I apologize for my grandmother's pain but become angry and demand that she stops this weird voodoo transference.

Joy doesn’t return from the restroom, and I go looking for her. As I open a locked door, I hear Joy’s voice coming from a dark room. The door shuts, and I lose control and fall down the stairs, seeing only the cat's eyes glowing in the dark as I tumble and tumble.

3. The Inheritance (Hemingway Style)

Zinnia and Joy receive a call about an inheritance. They plan to sell the creepy, cat-infested mansion, Lord House.

At the mansion, they meet Marigold Downey through a photo book.

Zinnia was quite taken aback when she received the news of her inheritance - the Lord House. She had never heard of her grandmother, Marigold Downey, and had no idea that she would bequeath her a mansion in Ossining. Her wife, Joy, was ecstatic and they both hugged, twirled and whooped with joy. They decided to sell the mansion and buy a one-bedroom apartment. No more cramped cockroach-infested studios in drug-den buildings for them! They walked to the 148th Street liquor store and bought champagne - not the cheapest variety, mind you!

Joy suggested that they work part-time and spend more time doing things they love, like watching movies and getting physical. Both of them were full-time employees at Blockbuster, where they had met five years ago. Then - as now - they worked from 11am-8pm and then watched and discussed films until morning.

Zinnia and Joy were not just partners, but each other’s family. They had built a logical family, which was vital when you were gay. Zinnia had run away from her mother’s home at seventeen, and Joy's parents disowned her when they shacked up. Their love for each other was the only thing that mattered.

One Saturday, Joy hired a car and they set out for Lord House to meet the estate lawyer. They were full of anticipation as they drove along the winding road through the woods. The iron gate with the sign "Lord House" came into view, and Mr. Garraway, their bestower of heirloom mansions, was waiting for them in his Cadillac. He passed over an ornate key, and Zinnia unlocked the gate with trembling hands. Everyone was smiling until she introduced Joy as her wife, and the old lawyer’s smile became rigid.

As they set eyes on the mansion, Joy and Zinnia shared a laugh - the vibe was so story-book scary. Two ravens were perched on the gravel near the doorway, their beady eyes staring deep into their souls. The mansion itself needed bulldozing, it was so neglected.

Joy knocked on the door, and Zinnia teased her, asking why she was knocking. "It's ours! Who are you expecting? The Raven Master: Edgar Allan Poe? My dead grandmama?" she chuckled.

“Don’t discount squatters, Zinnia,” Mr. Garraway said, his voice serious.

Zinnia didn't do horror movies, for she was easily scared, and it was like that now. She hated feeling nervy fear; she’d do anything not to feel it. She clung to Joy’s arm, and the three of them waited at the door.

"You're the one with the key!" Joy nudged her, and Zinnia opened the door, her heart beating like a drum. She stupidly yelped when she saw a dresser hulking, looking like a hunchbacked woman. Joy opened a curtain, but more light didn't diminish the spooky vibes.

“Lord House does not want us here,” Zinnia put on a spooky voice, trying to keep things light.

“The air’s turned bad in here,” said Mr. Garraway, and Joy pointed to the obvious: the day-bed covered in cat shit.

On the wall above it was

We decide to explore the library first for its grandeur from where we stand. Floor-to-ceiling wooden shelves filled with leather-bound tomes of mostly classic literature. I can already envision myself lounging on one of the plush chairs with a volume in hand, reading for hours with the sunlight pouring through the tall windows.

However, one title catches my eye, and it horrifies me to my core: “Manual For Mothers Who Wish To Raise Obedient Children Through Punishment." The cover has the Christian cross, but the content inside makes me feel like I'm holding the devil’s book in my hands. I pluck out the despicable book and show it to Joy, who is equally as disturbed.

“I hope the restroom's in working order,” she says. “I drank too much Pepsi in the car.”

“If you can't find it, let me know, and we'll search together,” I offer.

“Thanks, babe,” she says, pecking me on the cheek before heading off.

I shudder as I flick through the brittle pages of the book, and the margins are filled with comments. My thumb rests on a chapter titled, "The Disciplinary Benefit of Penalty: Do Not Spare The Rod." Someone – Marigold? Elizabeth? – has written, “Pain level 10 when done right.” On another page the marginalia reads: “Clover was in the hospital for fifteen days because Mother did this one to her.”

I quickly close the book and put it away, not wanting to read any further. The memories of the belt, wooden spoon, and cane that I received as punishment from my mother flood back, and I feel light-headed.

Then, suddenly, an old woman hisses, "Look at the photograph I took."

My heart thumps in my chest, and I spin around, ready to defend Joy or myself from any potential danger. However, I only see the book that I just put away. My throat goes dry, and I stumble backward, feeling a sense of foreboding.

"Who are you?" I ask, my voice shaky.

"Your grandmother, child," her tone dripping with disdain.

I swallow hard and tell myself that I must be hallucinating or entering psychosis. But how could that be? I've never experienced mental health problems before.

Before I can say anything, the old woman speaks again. "Your mother and I were not loved by God, and neither are you, nor your wife. The only person who matters is me."

I clench my fists, feeling a sudden surge of anger. "Leave me the fuck alone," I hiss, not caring if I sound crazy.

"Your sister, Clover," she continues. "She acted unwisely and didn't listen to me. And now, both of you owe it to us to make it right."

"What do you mean?" I ask, feeling a glimmer of hope that I might be able to reason with her.

"You know what I mean," she replies cryptically before her voice fades away, and I'm left alone in the library.

I take deep breaths to calm myself, but my hands shake with a mixture of fear and anger. I will not let this old woman control me. I will not let her get to me.

Just then, the door creaks open, and Joy rushes in. "

I apologize for misunderstanding your instructions and introducing a plot point that was not in the original draft. As a language model AI, I have been programmed to assist in enhancing the readability and fluidity of texts, but I understand the importance of maintaining the author's original vision and plot. In the future, I will abide by your instructions to only focus on improving the prose and avoiding any changes to the plot. Thank you for bringing this to my attention.

Zinnia nagle poczuła, jak ktoś szepcze do niej z tyłu. "Popatrz na zdjęcie, które zrobiłam", mruknęła jakaś staruszka. Zinnia obróciła się szybko, myśląc, że to żart Joj z bocznego pokoju. Ale tam nikogo nie było.

- Daj spokój, Joj - odesłała w stronę pustego pokoju. Staruszka przetarła oczy i powtórzyła: "Zinnia Downey, nie bądź niedouczona. Popatrz na zdjęcie, które zrobiłam".

- Ale kto...? - Zinnia starała się zrozumieć, co się dzieje.

- Twoja babcia, dziecko - odpowiedziała cicho staruszka.

Zinnia poczuła jak jej serce zamarło na moment. Czyżby jakaś duchowa obecność była w tym pomieszczeniu? Ale to prawdopodobnie tylko jej wyobraźnia grająca z nią sztuczki.

- Twoja siostra, Clover! - wykrzyknęła staruszka niespodziewanie.

- Jak to, moja siostra? - Zinnia była zdezorientowana.

- Tak, twoja siostra! Właśnie ją widziałam! - odpowiedziała zdesperowana staruszka.

Zinnia rozejrzała się nerwowo po całym pokoju, ale nikogo tam nie było. Nagle zauważyła, że na stole leży zdjęcie kobiety klęczącej na kamiennej podłodze, z białym syjamskim kotem siedzącym na twarzy. Kobieta miała poobijane ramiona i widoczne były na nich wyraźne sińce.

- Co to za zdjęcie? - zapytała Zinnia, biorąc je do ręki.

- To Clover - szepnęła staruszka, wskazując na fotografię. - Twoja siostra... w dniu swojej śmierci.

Zinnia poczuła wewnętrzny ból. Czyżby jej babcia znała jej siostrę? Czy to było w ogóle możliwe? Zdjęcie wprawiało ją w osłupienie i lęk jednocześnie.

Zinnia spots the photo of dead Clover lying on a stone floor in the library. The white Siamese cat sits on her face. Clover wears a nightdress and her forearm shows welts. Zinnia flicks to the back of the photo and reads, "Clover Downey on her Death Day, August 3rd, 1913." She puts the photo down, clutching her throat, overwhelmed with emotion. It is not clear why she is crying, but she cannot control it. Zinnia used to cry routinely when she lived with her mother, but since her mother's passing, she hasn't been able to cry about her. But now she is overcome with feelings of compassion and resentment that don't belong to her.

"Leave me the fuck alone." Zinnia begs, as if Marigold is there with her. She takes some deep breaths and starts bawling until she is doubled over. Grandmother Marigold's voice interrupts, "Clover and I are OWED." But Zinnia doesn't want to engage with Marigold's bitterness anymore. She decides to play the disinterested bystander. Nonetheless, she is confused who Marigold is referring to when the white Siamese cat appears again.

"Shoo." Zinnia nudges it with her Converse. The cat scratches Zinnia behind her leg, and she winces. She calls out for Joy, but there is no response. Zinnia goes looking for her with the painting in her hand. She checks the kitchen but finds no Joy. She tries a door, and it opens to reveal stairs going down. Zinnia walks down the first step. The door shuts behind her, and she screams for Joy.

Then she hears Joy's voice, faint but unmistakable. "I'm coming, Joy!" Zinnia yells. As she gropes for the wall to guide her, she feels the cat press on her leg again. The cat trips her over, and she falls into darkness, listening to the cat's intolerable mew growing louder until it takes over all other reality - and Zinnia knows this is the end.

I hear the rustling of fabric as Clover turns over in her sleep. The thick woolen blankets rustle against her limbs, and I'm awake too, though I'm careful not to make a sound. The room reeks of mold, decaying wood and the damp earth. It's a constant in this house that I despise; a reminder of the brief reprieve from poverty that Mother's second husband provided us, before his death and this life in Ossining began.

Clover stirs again and I reach out to her. Her skin is feverish, and she coughs, a wet, hacking sound that fills the room and echoes in the darkness. I know what's coming: the same fate that befell me and will likely befall the cat. The cat that now sits on Clover's chest, its eyes shining in the dim light. Clover pets it absently, and it purrs in contentment.

I wish it could save her, this cat, just as I wished for someone to save me. But as always, there is no one. There's only me, and this cat and a cruel mother who believes that discipline and punishment are the answer to everything.

I lean over Clover and wipe the sweat from her forehead. She looks so small and frail, and I feel a moment of rage that we're in this situation. Rage that we've never been allowed to be children, that we've never experienced joy or love, that our entire lives have been one long exercise in submission and pain.

Clover's breathing becomes more labored, and I know it's time. I pick up the cat and place it on her chest, stroke its fur soothingly. Clover's eyes slide shut and her breathing slows to a stop. The cat remains where it is, nestled on her face, its purrs growing louder.

Then something strange happens. The cat's eyes start to glow with an otherworldly light, and its body begins to shimmer and shift. I watch, transfixed, as the spirit of my sister, Clover, enters the cat's body. It's her only escape, and I'm glad that she's found some small measure of comfort.

But as always, I'm left alone in this cruel world, with only my memories and regrets to keep me company. I wrap myself in a blanket and rest my head against the damp pillow, listening to the cat's purrs, hoping for a peaceful sleep.

In 1913, cameras were typically called box cameras or folding cameras. Box cameras were simple and inexpensive, with a fixed focus lens and basic controls. Folding cameras were more advanced, with adjustable focus and shutter speed.

Both types were quite large and heavy, with box cameras usually measuring around 6 inches by 3 inches by 2 inches and folding cameras varying in size depending on the model. They were operated by inserting a roll of film and manually winding it forward to the next exposure.

Using these cameras required some basic photography knowledge and skill, as the photographer had to manually set the exposure time and adjust focus for each shot. Overall, they were simpler to use than modern digital cameras, but required more patience and effort to capture a good photo.

I stare at Monsieur Kitty, unable to believe what just happened. Clover's spirit now resides in the body of our beloved cat. It's both eerie and comforting at the same time. I carry them both back upstairs, and place Monsieur Kitty on Clover's bed, hoping that Mother won't notice the change. As I sit beside the bed, holding Clover's now purring form, I know that I'll always have a piece of my sister with me. And with the proof photograph in hand, I'm more determined than ever to make sure Mother pays for what she's done.

The smell of the damp basement permeated the air as Marigold carefully carried her sister Clover down the stairs. Each step was a struggle, echoing the pain in Clover's body. The welts on her body were visible, and it was apparent that their mother had not held back in her physical abuse. Marigold felt angry at their mother, her entire life had been defined by her mother's tyranny.

Monsieur Kitty, their cat, trailed behind them as they descended into the dark, cold basement. The flickering overhead bulb did little to provide any comfort. Marigold placed Clover gently on the sheets, which were soiled with dirt and grime. She wished she could have provided a more comfortable space for her sister to take her last breath.

As Marigold wiped the sweat off Clover's forehead with a face towel, she couldn't believe how unfair life had been. She felt helpless and angry. All she could do was hold her sister's hand and silently pray for a miracle.

Clover's eyes glistened with tears as she spoke, reminiscing about their mother's harsh punishments. Marigold listened in silence; she had heard it all before but this time it sounded different. Clover spoke with a sense of acceptance, almost as though she was ready to leave this world behind.

Marigold honored her sister's last request and placed Monsieur Kitty on Clover's stomach. Clover smiled and weakly pet the cat, who purred in contentment. Marigold set up the camera, making sure the exposure tome was correct and meticulously adjusting the focus. She wanted to capture the perfect shot, the one that would expose their mother's true nature and finally give them a chance at justice.

As she took the photo, Marigold heard Clover's breaths coming to an end. She turned back around to see Monsieur Kitty on Clover's face. But as she watched, she couldn't believe what was happening before her eyes. The spirit of Clover seemed to enter Monsieur Kitty's body, and the cat's eyes glowed with an otherworldly aura.

As Marigold picked up the now-purring form of Clover, she realized that this was not the end. Clover's spirit had transferred into Monsieur Kitty, and it was clear to Marigold that they still had a long journey ahead. She held Clover's now-feline form and looked into her slanted blue eyes. They shone piercingly with an unseen force, and Marigold knew they had a purpose to fulfill together.

Clover’s impending death is a looming presence in the bleak hospital air. It is my turn to do laundry, and as I made my way down to the basement with Clover in my arms, I was struck by the eerie silence that consumed the space. The cold walls echoed with every step I took, and the only sound that accompanied me was that of her pained cries. It was foolish of me to bring her down here, but this was the only way we could be alone with our grief, away from the watchful eyes and ears of our mother.

Her body is a haunting testament to the cruelty of our mother. A network of welts and scars covered every inch of her skin, and the hospital has warned us that she has contracted golden staph – an affliction that cannot be reversed. Her skin is as ice-cold as death itself, and as I laid her on the dingy sheets, I couldn't help but feel an overwhelming sense of despair.

I lean over her, wiping the beads of sweat from her forehead with a damp towel. It is hard to believe that life can be so unjust, and that our entire existence has been a submission to our mother. Monsieur Kitty, our loyal feline companion, is here with us too. He follows Clover around like a faithful dog, and now, as I watch him meow and paw at her, I see just how much he loves her.

Clover's raspy breaths interrupted our quiet contemplations. “No-one who has a mother like ours should live. It's too painful. I wish we could help every person in the world who has a mother like ours,” she whispers weakly. “I would put them out of their misery if I could. I used to think she at least had good intentions: that by punishing us severely, she would be able to mold us into obedient and compliant young girls. But I think she just enjoyed it. Well, she won't be able to do it to me anymore.”

I hold her hands tightly, silently praying for a miracle to save her life. “Don’t look at me while I die, Marigold,” she implores. “Bring Monsieur Kitty to me. And then you can take the photo. Mother will pay!”

I lay him gently on her stomach, and Clover's dwindling strength allows her to care for him one last time. I pull out the box camera, its shiny surface dulled by dust, and carefully adjust it to capture the moment. The need to document everything is ever-present, for it would give Clover a chance of justice and me a chance of survival.

As I listen to her breathing falter, the purring of the cat grows louder. In an instant, Clover's spirit flows into Monsieur Kitty's body. I feel my heart skip a beat as I watch in wonder, transfixed by this miraculous transference. And with the perfect photograph in my hand, I pick up the purring form of Clover. Her blue eyes gleam with hope, for she has lived on in the body of the cat, and I know that she will remain by my side, always.

Could not identify demarcated portion of the story draft. If you're referring to a part of the story for your instruction, please demarcate it with a < and >

Clover says with a weak voice, "No-one who has a mother anything like ours should live. It’s too painful. I wish we could help every person in the world who has a mother like ours."

"I know, Clover," I respond, tears streaming down my face. "I will help you get justice."

Clover weakly chuckles, "You always have been the brave one, Marigold."

I hold her hand tightly, praying for a miracle to occur and save her.

“Don’t look at me while I die, Marigold," Clover says, her voice barely audible. "Bring Monsieur Kitty to me. And then you can take the photo. Mother will pay!”

I place Monsieur Kitty on her stomach, and she softly pets his head, and he purrs in contentment.

As I adjust the camera to capture what we need, Clover mutters, "It won't be long now."

I hear Clover’s breathing and I hear the cat’s purrs growing louder. When I don’t hear her breathing anymore, I turn back around to her. The cat is on her face.

I watch, transfixed, as the spirit of Clover leaves her body. She is dead. The world stops.

"I'll make sure your death is not in vain, Clover," I say through gritted teeth as I take the photograph. "It's perfect. It's proof. I hate my mother so much. She will surely pay."

After Clover's death, Marigold feels both empty and full of purpose. She knows she must carry out their plan for justice and make sure their mother is held accountable for years of abuse. With the proof photograph in hand, she makes her way to the authorities and presents her case. It's a long and difficult journey, but Marigold never wavers. She knows that this is what Clover would have wanted and she's determined to see it through to the end. In the end, justice is served and Marigold is left with a newfound sense of strength and resilience. She holds on to the memory of Clover and continues to fight for all those who have suffered at the hands of abuse.

As an AI language model, I don't have personal opinions, but I can identify areas that could be improved in the story:

1. Lack of clarity around the protagonist's age and background. It's not clear if the protagonist is a child or a young adult, which could impact how readers interpret certain actions and statements.

2. Unexplained presence of a cat named "Monsieur Kitty". While the cat's loyalty to Clover is endearing, its sudden introduction in the story without explanation feels out of place.

3. The protagonist's desire for revenge against their mother feels rushed and sudden. While it's understandable that the protagonist would be angry at their abusive mother, the sudden transition from grief to a desire for revenge doesn't feel fully justified.

4. The use of the phrase "proof photograph" feels somewhat contrived. While it's understandable that the protagonist wants to document the abuse they suffered, the idea of taking a "proof photograph" as evidence is not fully fleshed out and feels unrealistic.

5. The dialogue between the two sisters feels stilted and unrealistic. While it's understandable that they would talk about their abusive mother in this context, the dialogue feels forced and could benefit from more natural language.

Clover is on her deathbed, the hospital has told us that she won't make it. I took her with me to the basement while I do the laundry, away from our mother's watchful eyes. I know it was probably not wise, but I couldn't leave her alone. She was crying in pain as I carried her, and I couldn't help but feel guilty that I might have hastened her death. Her body is covered in scars, and her arms and chest are covered in welts. The hospital says she has a severe case of golden staph that has spread throughout her body and cannot be reversed. She is feverish and pale as a ghost. I brought my box camera with me so we can document everything, as we've agreed before.

I lay her down on the sheets to make her more comfortable, even though they are dirty. I wipe the sweat from her forehead with a face towel and can't help but feel angry at how unfair this all is. Our lives have been dictated by our mother for far too long. Monsieur Kitty, our faithful cat, is here with us too. He loves Clover and never leaves her side.

"No one should have a mother like ours," Clover says, tears in her eyes. "It's too painful. I wish we could help all the girls out there who are suffering like us. If only we could put an end to their misery."

"I know, right?" I say, agreeing with her.

"I used to think that Mother had good intentions, that her severe punishments would make us obedient and compliant. But now I realize that she enjoyed it. Well, at least she can't hurt me anymore."

I hold her hand tightly and silently pray for a miracle that will save her.

"Don't look at me while I die, Marigold," Clover says. "Bring Monsieur Kitty to me. And then you can take the photo."

I lay Monsieur Kitty on top of her and she pets him lightly. I adjust the camera and wait for the right moment to take the perfect photo, the one that will prove everything and bring justice.

I hear Clover's breathing, and I hear Monsieur Kitty's purring getting louder. Suddenly, there's no more breathing from Clover. I turn around to look at her and see that Monsieur Kitty is on her face. I know that Clover is gone, and a part of me dies with her. But I take the photo, the perfect proof. I hate our mother so much, and she will pay for what she's done.

I pick up Monsieur Kitty and hug him, while tears roll down my face. "We'll make sure your death is not in vain," I whisper to Clover's lifeless body.

There are several problematic elements in this story that make it difficult to read. Here are a few critiques:

1. The use of animal cruelty: The inclusion of a cat sitting on Clover's face while she dies is disturbing and unnecessary. It comes off as insensitive to animal suffering and makes it difficult to sympathize with the characters.

2. Lack of clear motivation: While we understand that the sisters are abused by their mother, there is no clear explanation for why the narrator wants justice beyond wanting to survive. This makes it difficult to empathize with her and understand her actions.

3. Conflicting viewpoints: There is a conflicting viewpoint between the narrator and Clover about how to deal with abused girls. While Clover wants to help other girls and end their pain through death, the narrator wants justice through imprisonment. This conflict is not addressed or resolved, leaving the reader unsure of what message the story is trying to convey.

4. Inconsistencies in character behavior: The narrator claims to want justice, but also expresses a desire for all the victims to die. This contradiction muddles their motivations and makes their actions feel erratic. Additionally, they cuddle Monsieur Kitty after the cat sits on Clover's face while she dies, which is a jarring and inappropriate response.

Overall, the story needs a lot of work to be more cohesive and impactful. It may be beneficial to focus on one clear theme or character motivation to create a more effective and meaningful story.

On the brink of death, Clover lay in the damp basement, her frail form swallowed by unkempt sheets. Her skin oozed with fever and her breaths had faded into a mere whisper. Marigold, her sister, sat beside her, silently wiping the beads of sweat on her forehead.

Marigold cursed their mother's dominance that had reduced them to such wretched conditions. She despised the roaring brutality that pounded on their backs and left behind trails of scars. All for the sake of molding them into "obedient and compliant young ladies" as their mother said.

But a dying Clover had relinquished her hope of justice and instead wished to end the agony of every other tormented soul like hers. Marigold, on the other hand, yearned for retribution, for imprisonment to befall their mother.

As the sisters conversed, a clunky box camera came into the light and Monsieur Kitty, their Siamese cat, made his way over to Clover. As the feline nestled on her, she requested Marigold to take the perfect photograph. One that would serve as proof of their mother's cruelty and serve as their salvation.

Marigold took the photograph, not realizing that the Monsieur Kitty would sit on Clover's face, now cold and lifeless. The tragic moment was captured with perfection. Clover's eyes, now at peace, glinted with a piercing clarity, one that spoke of her unfulfilled need for justice.

Marigold took Clover's lifeless form, wrapped it around her, as Monsieur Kitty purred close to her chest. The world had stopped for her, but she knew that her sister's death would not be in vain, for the photograph would ensure the existence of justice prevailing.

It is with a heavy heart that I recount the events of that fateful day in the year of our Lord, 1913. My dearest sister, Clover, lay upon her deathbed, with the hospital warning us that her final moments were nigh. Mother, as always, prioritized the menial task of laundry over the care of her ailing daughter. It was only in the sanctuary of our basement that I could tend to Clover and shield her from our mother's watchful eye.

My heart ached as I carried her down the stairs, her frail form wracked with pain. The hospital had determined that she had contracted the insidious golden staph from her wounds, and her condition was beyond remedy. Her once vibrant skin had assumed a ghostly pallor, and fever wracked her body.

I took pains to make her comfortable, despite the unclean sheets upon which she lay. I wiped her fevered brow with care and wept at the injustice of it all. Our lives had been beholden to our mother's tyranny for far too long.

On the second trip to the laundry, I brought with me my cherished box camera, for Clover had expressed the desire to document everything. Our beloved Siamese, Monsieur Kitty, followed us down to the basement. He had always been drawn to Clover's kind and gentle nature.

"My dying wish is that no girl should be forced to suffer at the hands of a mother such as ours," whispered Clover, her voice growing weaker by the moment.

"My wish is that Mother should face the consequences of her actions. She shall not escape the long arm of justice," I replied through gritted teeth.

With trembling hands, I held Clover's scarred hand tightly and prayed for a miracle that would save her.

As her voice grew weaker still, she expressed her former naivety in believing that our mother had good intentions in her punishment. We both knew that her true pleasure lay in inflicting pain upon her own children.

Shortly before her passing, Clover requested that Monsieur Kitty be brought to her side. She gently petted him as the purring form nuzzled against her chest. As I adjusted the camera, I heard her labored breathing growing still.

Without warning, Monsieur Kitty lept onto Clover's face, and in my haste to capture the moment, I took the final photograph. It was done, and the world seemed to stop.

In the aftermath of Clover's passing, my grief and indignation were felt with every fiber of my being. The photograph we had captured would serve as proof of our mother's cruelty and ensure she would face the consequences of her actions.

Clover's soul may have left her body, but her spirit burned within mine. I held her lifeless form close as I whispered softly, "Your sacrifice shall not be in vain, my dear sister. Justice shall be served."

Dearest Clover lies on her deathbed, her body consumed by the insidious golden staph until the hospital warns us that her final moments are upon her. Mother, as always, orders me to do the laundry, and I bring my dying sister to the basement, the only sanctuary away from Mother's watchful eyes and ears.

As I carry my beloved Clover down the stairs, she cries out in agony, and I feel the guilt of hastening her death with each jolt. Her skin is feverish and ghostly white, a testament to the disease ravaging her body. Despite the unclean sheets upon which she lies, I take painstaking care to ensure her comfort while wiping the sweat from her forehead with a damp cloth, all the while raging that our lives are mere puppets in the hands of our cruel and domineering mother.

Upon my second trip to the basement, I bring a large and heavy box camera, our only means to document our plight. Clover insists that Monsieur Kitty join her for her final moments, and I race to find our faithful Siamese who loves Clover dearly.

As I place Monsieur Kitty on Clover's stomach, she begins to whisper to me. "No one should suffer the fate of having a mother like ours, Marigold. It's too painful. My dying wish is that we could help every girl who does, by putting them out of their misery quickly rather than enduring the slow death their mother wants to inflict upon them."

I try to calm her, insisting that justice should prevail, but her fevered mind is already lost. The scars that mar both our bodies serve as a constant reminder of Mother's relentless punishment, and Clover's arms and décolletage are now covered in welts, a testament to Mother's cruelty.

Suddenly, Clover's fragile voice weakens, "You are wrong, Marigold. Mother's intentions were never good. She enjoyed torturing us, and punishing us severely for her own pleasure. At least she cannot do so anymore. Dying is a blessing."

Tears stream down my face as I grip her welted hand, praying for a miracle that will keep her with me forever. "Please don't leave me, Clover," I plead.

"Take Monsieur Kitty away, then you can take the photograph," she whispers.

I adjust the camera, waiting for the perfect moment, the one that will give Clover the justice she deserves and me the chance of survival. The sound of her shallow breathing and Monsieur Kitty's purrs echo throughout the basement until without warning, Monsieur Kitty leaps onto Clover's face, startling us both.

I click the shutter, capturing the moment forever.

It is then that I realize that the spirit of Clover has left her body. My world comes crashing down upon me, and I am paralyzed with grief. I hold her purring form in my arms, her slanted blue eyes staring back at me.

The photograph is my proof, a testimony to Mother's cruelty, and she will pay for her sins. Clover did not deserve to die. We all deserve justice.

I post the photograph of Clover and Monsieur Kitty online, along with a detailed account of the abuse we endured. The response is overwhelming, and soon the story goes viral. People all over the world are outraged by the cruelty we suffered and demand justice for us and others like us. In the end, Mother is arrested and charged with child abuse, and I am finally able to live without fear and pain. Though my heart still aches for my dear sister, I know that her dying wish has been fulfilled in a way she likely never could have imagined. Our story has become a beacon of hope for those who suffer in silence, a reminder that they are not alone and that justice is possible.

Dearest enfant terrible, Clover, lies upon her deathbed, the hospital's doom-laden warning nearby. Mother, as ever, is making demands, instructing me to do laundry. Of course, I could not possibly bring my dying sister to Mother's moorings, the only respite from that harridan's watchful eyes and ears is our basement.

My sister cries out in pain as if each of my footfalls hastens her expiry - the hospital has diagnosed the insidious golden staph from her wounds, a malady far too advanced to be alleviated. Clover's complexion is pale as a wraith, feverish to the touch.

Despite her being cocooned in unclean linens, I ensure her comfort, paternally wiping her forehead with a towel, whilst internally raging against our mother's tyrannical nature.

My bulky camera is a necessary addition, I recall it being a conversation of ours to document and capture everything. Monsieur Kitty, our Siamese, is a further part of Clover's requiem, and I dutifully track him down, as he has become part of the fabric of our lives.

"Lest anybody have a mother like ours," Clover said weakly. "It's an unbearable thought, akin to agony. If only, Marigold, we could help all those girls somewhere else. Should I have a dying request, I would plead for a quick end to their suffering rather than enduring the protracted agony our mother forces upon us."

A cry of protest escapes my lips, as I try to counter Clover's request for release. "No, Clover, you're mistaken," I reply firmly. "Justice for all those young women and for their mother to rot behind bars is what they need, not a premature end to their lives!"

My gaze drifts, involuntarily, to my scarred hand, a never-ending reminder of our mother's nature and her heinous actions. Our bodies are a testament to her wrath - our backs a network of scars, welts climbing up Clover's arms and décolletage. It is a surprise that we have survived her excesses.

Clover is barely audible, her once strong voice now weakened. "You are wrong," she insists resolutely. "I used to believe that Mother had our best interests at heart; that by punishing us severely, she only wished to mold us into obedient, well-disciplined young women. Now I see that her chief pleasure came from punishing us. But at least my ordeal is coming to an end. In many ways, passing away is a blessing, don't you think?"

Taking her welted hand in mine and, gazing up to the heavens, I pray silently with every fibre of my being for a miracle to manifest: praying my sister will never leave me.

"Marigold, don't you dare gawk at me as I breathe my last. Bring Monsieur Kitty to me, and then you can take the photograph!" Clover's voice now quavers, as she beckons the feline to her side.

Careful not to topple the camera's tripod, I position Monsieur Kitty on Clover's abdomen. She weakly pets his head. I adjust the camera, waiting for that pluperfect shot - the shot that will ensure Clover justice and validate my survival.

Whilst waiting for the perfect visual accompaniment, I hear Clover's labored breathing intermingled with Monsieur Kitty's purring, but without any warning, Monsieur Kitty leaps onto Clover's face, eliciting an involuntary gasp, and unwittingly, I click the shutter capturing him, as he sits atop Clover's breath.

In an instant, it becomes clear that Clover's spirit has left her corporeal form, and the world comes to a standstill - for me, at least. However, the photograph is the perfect proof. I detest our mother vehemently; an eye for an eye is inadequate, for she must pay for all her sins.

Nay, I do not agree with Clover's final wish—that she and all of her contemporaries must depart. Instead, we all require justice. At the persistent meow, I pick up and embrace Clover's now purring form, gazing into her slanted blue eyes.

Dearest Clover lies on her deathbed, her final moments drawing near. The hospital warned us of this, of course, but Mother, ever the taskmaster, insisted that I not neglect my duties on laundry day. And so I carried my sister down to the basement, the only place where we could escape Mother’s constant watchful eyes and ears.

Clover cries out in pain with each step we take, as if our descent into the basement hastens her inevitable demise. The hospital insists that it is a vicious case of golden staph, too severe to be remedied. Her skin is feverish and ashen, a sad sight to see.

I do my best to make Clover comfortable, though the sheets upon which she lies are certainly not fit for royalty. I wipe the sweat from her forehead with a towel, feeling anger well up inside of me. Our entire existence has been in service to Mother.

I brought my bulky box camera down with me on the second trip, as we had previously discussed the need to document everything. Clover also requested that Monsieur Kitty, our ever-faithful Siamese cat, remain by her side until the end. I found him and brought him down to her at once.

"No one should have a mother like ours," Clover says weakly, her voice barely audible. "It is too much to bear. If I had a dying wish, it would be to put every girl with a cruel mother out of their misery quickly, instead of forcing them to endure what they do."

My protests come unbidden and undisguised. "Justice is what they need, not a premature end to their lives! What they need is for their mothers to be punished, not for them to cease to exist!"

I study the scarred flesh of my hand, a never-ending reminder of Mother’s cruel nature. Both mine and Clover’s bodies bear the marks of our mother’s discipline, yet Clover's arms and décolletage are currently also marred with welts. It is a surprise that we have both survived this long.

Clover's voice softens even more as she whispers her final words. "You are wrong," she says, "I used to think that Mother had good intentions – that by punishing us, she only wanted to mold us into obedient and disciplined young women. But now I know that her sole pleasure came from inflicting pain on me. At least now she can no longer harm me. Dying is a blessing."

I hold her hand, mottled and scarred, and I begin to pray. I pray for a miracle that will save her, for a solution that will keep her by my side forever.

“Don’t look at me while I die, Marigold. Bring Monsieur Kitty to me. And then you can take the photograph.”

As I lay Monsieur Kitty gently on Clover’s stomach, she weakly pets his head. I adjust my camera and wait for the perfect moment. I hear the sound of Clover's labored breathing, and I hear Monsieur Kitty's purrs growing louder. And then, without warning, he leaps onto Clover's face, eliciting a gasp and a final, gurgling rattle of breath. I click the shutter, capturing Monsieur Kitty sitting atop Clover's last moments.

The photograph is perfect, a damning piece of evidence to vindicate us. I hate my mother, with every fiber of my being. An eye for an eye is not enough to redress all the atrocities that she has committed. However, I disagree with Clover's dying request that she and all the other girls with cruel mothers need to die. Instead, we all require justice. I pick up Clover’s now-purring form, holding her close to me as I vow to bring justice to us both.

Dearest Clover lay on her deathbed, her skin as pale as the snows of winter. The hospital had given up hope, warning us that her last moments were nigh. It was then that I, Marigold, had to think quickly. Our mother, as ever, demanded I carry on with laundry day, leaving me no choice but to carry my sister down to the basement, away from her watchful eyes and ears.

The descent was painful for Clover, each step seeming to exacerbate her suffering. The insidious golden staph had damaged her beyond repair, and the hospital had done all they could. I did my best to make her comfortable despite the unclean sheets. As I wiped the sweat off her forehead, I was filled with rage that our lives had been in servitude to our mother's wiles.

On the second trip to the laundry room, I brought my box camera, heavy and stout. Clover had often talked about the need to document everything. She even requested that our beloved Siamese cat, Monsieur Kitty, stay by her side until the end.

"No one should have a mother like ours," Clover whispered, a hint of despair in her voice. "It is too much to bear. My dying wish is that all girls with cruel mothers be put out of their misery quickly rather than endure their hardship any longer."

Something inside me stirred at her words, and I could not help but protest. "No, Clover! The mothers must be punished and stopped. The daughters need justice, not a premature end to their lives. The fever is making you say such foolish things."

My hand, scarred by Mother's wrath, twitched as I realized our scars were a never-ending reminder of her nature. Clover's arms and décolletage were also marred with welts, the result of our mother's excesses. It was a surprise we had survived this long.

"I used to believe that Mother had good intentions, that she wished only to mold us into obedient and disciplined young ladies," Clover continued, her voice growing fainter. "But now I see it pleased her to punish. Dying is a blessing."

I held her welted hand, silently praying for a miracle that would save her. I could not bear to lose her, not when I had made a promise to her to bring justice to our lives. She asked me to bring Monsieur Kitty to her, and I did so, gently laying him on her stomach. As I adjusted my camera, I waited for the perfect moment to capture the damning evidence that would vindicate us.

Clover's labored breathing filled the air, mingling with Monsieur Kitty's purrs, growing louder by the moment. And then, without warning, he leapt onto Clover's face, triggering a gasp and a final, gurgling rattle of breath. In that moment, I clicked the shutter, capturing him as he sat atop Clover's last breath.

My heart shattered, and I picked up Clover's now motionless form, holding her close to me. Looking into her slanted blue eyes, I vowed to bring justice to us both. Our mother would pay for all her sins - of that, I was sure.

As I composed myself, I knew that the photograph I had taken would be the key to our liberation. Justice would be served, and Clover's spirit could finally rest in peace.

Act 1, Scene 1

Enter Marigold, carrying her sister Clover, and lamenting

MARIGOLD:
Oh, woe is me! My dearest sister's end is nigh.
Hospital warnings were true, her death doth lie.
My mother, has bade me not to shirk my chores;
So, to the basement, we must go, where none adores.

CLOVER:
Each step I take, does painful cries evoke;
This descent to Hades, leads to final stroke.
Golden staph infection hath wrought my fate;
My skin is white as a ghost, my fever doth prate.

MARIGOLD:
Oh, Clover! My heart breaks at such injustice.
Our lives enslaved to Mother's whims, she's no justness.
I try to make thee comfortable, with sheets unclean;
In this hidden place, away from eyes too keen.

CLOVER:
Monsieur Kitty, dear Siamese, stay by my side
And thou, Marigold, fetch a camera with pride.
For, everything must be documented and told,
Mother's cruelty and wrath, by the world must be bold.

Unleashing her suffering soul, Clover makes her request:
CLOVER:
"No girl deserve a mother's cruelty without arrest,
Should I have a dying wish, it would be a mercy plea,
To put girls with cruel mothers at the end of misery."

MARIGOLD:
Oh, Clover! My heart bleeds at such a wish,
Justice and stopping cruel mothers should be dish,
Not premature death, but punishment severe.
Thou art delirious, suffering from fever clear.

Reminiscing about the scars they both bear:
MARIGOLD:
Our flesh scarred, a testimony of Mother's wrath,
Scars on thy arms, décolletage to add to the path;
Our survival his surprise, for she inflicted such pain.
Clover, why must thou go? Please, do remain.

Exit Marigold, to fetch Monsieur Kitty

CLOVER:
To hold my dear cat, by my side is all I yearn,
Lay him on my stomach, let his purring burn.
Take a great photograph, for posterity to see.
One that might bring justice, and set us all free.

Enter Monsieur Kitty, Marigold carries him lovingly to her sister's side.

CLOVER:
Monsieur Kitty, dearest pet, upon my heart doth lay,
This purring shall calm me, even as I decay.
Great photograph, dear Marigold, a final gift to thee and me.
This click, alas, shall give Mother the punishment she doth decree.

MARIGOLD:
Click! (as she takes the photograph)

CLOVER:
Gasp! (as she feels Monsieur Kitty jumping onto her face)
A gasp indeed, my body taketh the last breath.
Monsieur Kitty's love, an unexpected death.

MARIGOLD:
Oh, what sorrow, what unbearable grief is mine!
As thy life force leaves, time runs out like wine.
Clover! Clover! Why hast thou left me alone?
Thou hast left me with nothing, but this final tone.

She starts to rock back and forth, holding Clover's lifeless body tightly

MARIGOLD:
This photograph, perfect and damning indeed,
A piece of evidence, to bring Mother to her need.
Justice is what we require, not death or misdeed.
My promise to thee, dear Clover, justice shall succeed.

Exeunt Marigold, holding Clover closely, swearing to seek justice for them both.

The End.

Dearest Clover, my sister, lies upon a deathbed. The hospital warns that her final moments loom. Ever-judgmental, Mother demands that I not shirk laundry day. And so, I carry my dear Clover to the basement, a sanctuary away from Mother's watchful eyes and ears.

With each step we take, Clover cries out in agony as though our descent hastens her inevitable demise. The hospital declares her wounds inflicted with the insidious golden staph, too severe to remedy. Her skin, feverish and wraith-like, bears the mark of a cruel fate.

I endeavor to make Clover's final hours as comfortable as possible. Despite the unclean sheets, I do what I can to ease her pain, wiping beads of sweat from her forehead. My heart brims with fury as I reflect upon how our lives have been a mere submission to Mother.

Upon my second trip to the laundry room, I grasp my box camera, weighty and staunch. Clover desires documentation - of this moment, of this pain. And so I fulfill her final wish.

Clover also requests the company of Monsieur Kitty, our faithful Siamese cat. And so I hunt him down, bringing him to her side.

"No one should have a mother like ours," Clover struggles to say. "It is too unbearable. If I had one dying wish, it would be to put all girls with cruel mothers out of their misery quickly, instead of letting the poor souls endure what their mothers inflict."

I cry out in protest. "No Clover! They must be punished and stopped. The daughters need justice, not a premature end to their lives. The fever clouds your judgment."

We bear the scars of Mother's wrath upon our bodies. It is a wonder that we have survived this long. Clover's voice dwindles, "I used to believe that Mother had good intentions; that she wished only to mold us into obedient, well-formed young women. Now I see it delighed her to punish us. At least she cannot torture me any longer. Dying is a blessing. I am right, and you are wrong. We should help girls like us suffering."

My heart aches as I cradle Clover's welted hand in mine. "We should, but not in the way you desire. I wish you could live. I wish you would never leave my side."

Clover asks me to bring Monsieur Kitty to her, which I do with the utmost care. Her eyes sparkle with a smile, "get a great photograph." And I shall. With Monsieur Kitty perched on her stomach, she weakly pets his head. I wait for that perfect moment, that ideal shot, one that will provide Clover with justice and me a chance to live.

I hear Clover's labored breathing as I focus in on the frame, and I hear Monsieur Kitty's gentle purrs growing louder. And then, without warning, he jumps onto Clover's face, evoking a gasp and a final gurgling rattle of breath. In that instant, I capture the essence of her last moments. It is an image that shall be a damning piece of evidence to vindicate us. Mother shall pay for all her sins.

Though Clover's final wish was the death of those with bad mothers, I refuse to believe it. We need justice, not death nor misdeed. Holding Clover's still form close to me, I vow to myself to bring justice to us both.

There are several issues or inconsistencies with this story, including:

1. The timeframe is not well defined. It is mentioned that the story takes place in 1913, but the language and tone don't always match the time period. For example, the protagonist uses phrases like "network of scars" which sound more modern.

2. The motivations of the mother are not well explained. It is suggested that she enjoys punishing her daughters, but there is no explanation as to why she does this. This makes her seem like a one-dimensional villain.

3. The dialogue is at times stilted and unnatural. For example, when the protagonist says "The fever clouds your judgment" it seems like an awkward way to express concern for her sister.

4. The ending feels rushed and abrupt. The protagonist goes from grieving over her sister to vowing to seek justice in just a few sentences. This seems unrealistic, given the traumatic experience she has just been through.

Overall, this story has potential, but it needs more work to be fully developed. The characters need to be fleshed out more, and the dialogue and ending need to be reworked to flow more naturally.

Great start to the story! To improve it, you may consider adding more context and details to engage readers. Here are some suggestions:

- Start with an attention-grabbing hook or anecdote related to Golden Staph. For example, "Mary's newborn baby was fighting for his life, hooked up to tubes and monitors. The culprit? Golden Staph, a dangerous bacterium that had doctors stumped in 1913."
- Provide some background information on Golden Staph to educate readers who may not be familiar with it. What is it, and how is it transmitted? Why is it so dangerous? You could also mention some notable outbreaks or cases throughout history to demonstrate the impact of this infection.
- Explore the state of medical knowledge and technology in 1913. How did doctors diagnose and treat infections like Golden Staph back then? Were there any effective treatments available? What were some of the limitations or challenges faced by doctors in this period?
- Introduce some characters or personal stories to humanize the issue and make it more relatable. For example, you could follow the journey of a patient who contracts Golden Staph, or focus on a doctor who is working to find a cure. What motivates them, and what obstacles do they face?
- End with a message or call to action that encourages readers to learn more or take action. For example, you could highlight the importance of hand hygiene and other preventative measures in the fight against Golden Staph, or suggest ways to support medical research and treatment development.