The nightly torment on Mellowbrooke Street

The image of a haunted street stood in people’s minds for months.

Some dared not pass the row of houses in Mellowbrooke Street at dusk – others did not even go down it when the sun came out.

An eerie mist clouded the concrete sidewalks, while unseasonable cries of terror pervaded the area. Some suspected it was a ghost. Others said it was the wind. They were wrong.

A small lavender-purple house stood out from the chain of dwellings.

The dark wooden door welcomed a grand total of zero guests, not a soul passing through the lilac barriers except for the owners – Mr and Mrs Speight, and their young daughter, Lynn.

Unfortunate for the girl, because the nightly clamour belonged to her parents. Their bickering and spiteful shouting were enough to drive everyone off the street.

Sometimes they would fight over an innocent mistake, like forgetting to clean out the dishwasher or set the table for lunch.

Lynn often listened in secret. She would turn off the lights to fool her parents into thinking she was asleep, and close her door to let a small sliver of light shine through.

Sometimes she would hear something breaking, and the next day she would discover a crack in the window or a missing vase.

After a few months, she sought refuge in the abandoned mint-green house next door, in the fog of night.

The silence and creaking floorboards welcomed her with open arms.

She found comfort in the unfamiliar smell of dust in the air and lay down on the wooden floor, the moon projecting a pool of white light on her.

After many weeks alone in the empty house, a family moved in. Her isolated haven had been replaced by a bedroom.

It was a new sight. Her once desolate hideout was now furnished with a carpet, bed and even a dresser.

Now she carried the burden of hearing her parents’ squabbles while she slept.

The change wasn’t something she favoured. It was as if a new gear had been thrown into a perfectly working machine, causing the rhythm and flow to change, and not something for the best.

Lynn found it troubling, her life no longer as smooth as clockwork, but now as jagged as broken shards of glass.

This is the personal opinion of the writer and does not necessarily represent the views of Twentytwo13.

To give the younger generation an avenue to express themselves, Twentytwo13 now has a dedicated space called Young Voices. If you are a young writer (aged between 12 and 17) and would like to have your article published on our news website, send your contribution to

All articles must be accompanied by the young writer’s full name, MyKad number, contact number, and the mobile number of the young writer’s parents/guardians for verification purposes.