I have grown tired of my own passion, overworked myself to the point where I needed shots in my arms. Being an artist in this kind of world is not easy. People will praise you your whole life for your talent, but the moment you try to make something out of it, suddenly you are trash. You are never enough for art school, never enough to be treated like a human, always treated like nothing for not being like the person next to you.
Teachers overlook quiet students and treat them like they are stupid.
Or maybe that is just me.
Last year I took my shot at art school and failed, almost got mocked to my face by the teachers and the other students. This year I am trying again so I can embarrass myself even worse. But I cannot be a burden to my parents anymore.
So I decided to move out.
I am moving out at nineteen, a massive failure with minimum wage and a broken dream. What could go wrong, right?
Finding a place big enough for my artwork and cheap was surprisingly easy. It was definitely a bit sketchy, but hey, I am a broke artist. I will take anything. The house was old and not in the best condition, so they marketed it to college kids who were just as desperate as the sellers.
So I fell for it. Talk about desperate.
Despite the condition of the building, it had furniture and a fireplace, so maybe it was a steal after all. The only thing I had to do was clean and unpack my stuff. It was dusty as hell in there, but I felt way too guilty to ask my friends for help.
Now I get why it was so cheap. No one wanted to deal with it.
But I had to deal with it if I wanted to put my life back together. I signed the contract with the creepy house owner, bought the hell house, and put on my cleaning lady outfit which was just sweatpants after my stuff got delivered.
Cleaning this hellhole was exhausting. Dust and spiders were definitely the previous owners.
"If this place is not haunted, then I do not know what is" I yelled into my empty living room.
I should not have.
From the kitchen, I heard a knock that made my heart drop straight to my ass. Just a coincidence, right?
That was definitely not enough to scare me off. After all, I already imagined it would be haunted. I mean, look at it.
"Very funny, mister ghost, or miss, or person. I will do my thing and you do yours. But for now, I am leaving this room before I shit my pants a little."
And with that, I went to the room I intended to turn into my art studio. Big windows, great lighting, and enough space for an artist's imagination. And most importantly, no signs of supernatural activity.
After cleaning all day, I went to bed early to recharge for tomorrow's cleaning session. As I lay in bed, I could not shake the feeling of someone watching me. I was not exactly scared, just a little spooked. Not a fan of sleeping alone in an empty house.
But I have a habit most people left behind when they were seven. I sleep with a night light on. I am also not a fan of the dark.
"Alrighty, ghosts, no staring at me while I am sleeping. That is creepy even for a ghost. Goodnight."
And with that, I slept through my first night in the clown house.