Literature
We need to get out of here.
No trespassers.
That's what that sign said, the one hanging right outside of the about - to - be - torn - down building. It was painted sloppily on a reasonably light slab of wood with thick crimson paint and, as if that weren't creepy enough, swaying side to side though there was no wind. I shined my flashlight on it, the beam illuminating the smallest crevices in the sign and casting a long shadow behind it.
The fence shook violently as my friend rammed into it, the noise of creaking metal echoing eerily through the darkness. "It's locked," He concluded. I rolled my eyes.
"Of course it's locked, you idiot. Did you think they would leave
