Lenscrafted Lore #6
Creating TTRPG Stories from Visual Inspirations
Red brick from river clay stands caked in the grime of time. Vines scale its face, and the yard heaves with foliage out of control and hungry for more. The other girls in the class scurry by this house, careful to not look in the windows. Some even hold their breath. Curiously, one girl pauses by the stalwart gate, her brows furrow at the childishness from the other girls. She scoffs at their superstition. They walk by here every sunny day to and from school.
“It’s just a creepy old house,” she whispers to herself staring at the crawling vines. She swears they’re slowly growing by the second.
“Marshaaa!” A woman calls from the corner. A plump and kindly figure with a tall bun of bright brown hair is waving her arm in a salutation to the young girl.
“Coming Mrs. Bruin!” Marsha huffs as her legs carry her across the front of the looming red-brick house. Her feet clack-clack-clacking on the concrete almost made her miss the near imperceptible tingle of music coming from behind a staunch, dark, wooden door. It was high-pitched and a rhythmic jingling that stayed with her throughout the day.
By lunchtime, as she sits at the end of the Fifth Grader’s table staring at the greying skies, her peanut butter sandwich sagged in her hands. The din of the other girls gossiping and laughing together slowly fades. Marsha never fit in with the other girls, but that was okay. She didn’t need friends; she had her Aunt Mable to keep her company. Lost in a pleasant vignette about Aunt Mable’s comically large sweater unraveling the other day the sound of that tiny bell ringing from inside the house floats into her conscience. It isn’t until the lunch bell rings, and the Janitor Mr. Jones is emptying the bins, does Marsha snap to attention. The table below and her hands a gooey mess of bread, jam and peanut butter. She chastises herself for the peanut mess she’d created on the table and wipes as much of it up with some spare napkins before running to the girl’s restroom to wash her jelly-sticky hands.
By 3 PM the sky had opened up and was depositing its bounty on the city below in a constant, pleasant hiss. Marsha stares out the window. Bored, and having completed her work for the class, she sets to sketching in her notebook. An odd floral design comes to mind, and she works diligently to capture the image. By the end of class, a rendering of the vines cascading the red-bricked building up the road filled the page. She would have to find out what that ringing was. The feeling of its importance wouldn’t leave her alone. It seemed to consume her thoughts until-
“Wham!” An aging yellow, wooden yard stick cracked atop her desk sent jolts through her spine. Turning slowly with a sheepish smile she faces the aged woman.
“Sorry Mrs. Thomas I-” she was cut off with a wave of the woman’s bony finger.
“It’ll be no matter Dear. However, we could make up for it in detention if you preferred,” raising an unkempt brow. Her voice a mix of a cat’s meow and a toad, or so the girls seemed to think.
“N-no Mrs. Thomas, I’ll behave.” She lowered her head and focused on the chalkboard. It was no longer the segment she had completed earlier. Now they were on arithmetic. Marsha quickly sets about catching up.
The end of the day bell eventually rings, and all the girls are instructed to don their school-colored raincoats, hats and galoshes before leaving for home. Some girls had their names called to remain inside as their parents had called ahead with plans to retrieve their child. Marsha stands outside with many other girls who were chatting and saying goodbye for the day when she faintly hers it again. That slight, rhythmic tingling.
Wet, plodding galoshes squelch their way towards the old, abandoned home. She was paces away from crossing the street when a car horn honks and the sweet voice of Aunt Mabel floats to her from the street breaking her attention from the home.
“Marsha Dear! I’m so sorry. You know storms always put me right to sleep.” Marsha opens the door shaking off her rain gear as to not get the entire car damp. “Let’s get you home and warm Love. I’ve got a roast duck for us tonight.” Aunt Mable continues to lovingly prattle as her wide car swings around the corner to pass the front of the home. It was just in the flash of a second, but as they sped past the front, Marsha could swear she saw it. The door of the abandoned building had been left ajar.
Lenscrafted Lore is a series where I aim to share one of the many photos I’ve taken that gives a sense of wonder and sparks the imagination. These are not meant to be exhaustive DM resources where I spell out all the answers. Rather, these serve as bits of inspiration you can take back to your table or fiction and expand upon.
Thank you for joining me on this journey through the realms of imagination. If you've enjoyed this exploration of Lenscrafted Lore and crave more tales of adventure, don't hesitate to subscribe so you stay updated on future posts.