TheMuffinWoman1

so i found out how to add this shit as literature. if you've read it on my journal it's the same shit.  A mere wisp in the wind, that was I with my blackened cloak billowing, as I approached the run-down house, paint peeling off of the sides. This was the home of a poor family, the Robinsons, and the soon-to-be final place of rest of a sick man, Albert Robinson. I walk through the door of the home, for a specter requires no opened entrance, gazing inside. The house wasn't noteworthy, I've seen billions, and this was no different from the rest of the poor homes. As I ascended the dusty wooden staircase, I saw a child, a male of only a few ye