The Haunted House


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Pushing the heavy gates open the touch of the iron bars, as cold as
ice, seized up my hand completely. Even though I could feel the
unevenness of the old cobbled path beneath me, they were smooth in
contrast to the crunching of the odd dead leaf that I stepped on.
Carrying on up the path the grass carried on forever into the horizon,
a dull grey colour as if it had lost the will to live and stopped
growing altogether.

One lonesome Oak tree stood by the house swaying in the wind and as
the wind swept by the tree whispered to the air and its surroundings.
The moon shone bright white, in the cloudless sky, it was the only
source of light that could be seen for miles. Owls occasionally
fluttered by overhead, their silhouettes passing over the grass. The
air was cold and numb and with every breath I drew a misty, chilly
exhale followed.

As the house drew nearer everything around me became quieter and more
distant. The trees murmuring couldn't be heard anymore and the cold
iron gates were far, far back in the distance. Owls couldn't be heard
anymore and there were no leaves on the ground, just some aged
concrete steps, and a doorway that stood in front of me.

From the outside, the house was tall and thin, made from large dark
grey stones that had a rough feel all of this sandwiched together by
crumbling cement. Climber Plants grew up the house winding around the
drainpipes grabbing for the little sunlight that reached this desolate
place. The windows rattled vigorously from the howling wind, as though
they were about to fall out of the frames which were made from rotting
wood being eaten away by wood worm. A few potted plants lay next to
the door, once there for neat presentation now wilted and brown,
almost certainly dead. The door had been left ajar perhaps for many
years, or maybe someone was already in there.

The hallway was dull and smelt of dust mixed with old age.

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Paintings
hung up of what looked to be important rich prople, their eyes
following my every move. To the left was a old wooden stairway leading
upwards to the second floor each step looked so delicate and worn that
if you were to walk up them you would step right through them.
Straight ahead led to two more rooms, which looked to be a kitchen,
from all the cups and plates left out, a dining room, and to the right
of me was the lounge area. The lounge had large bookcases on each wall
stacked with thick data books caped in dust. There was no television
just a sofa, two chairs and a fireplace; the thick smell of charcoal
from the once burning fireplace had spread around the room choking me
up on the inside. The chairs and sofa were made from black leather
once soft and comfy now thin and worn away from all the use. Under the
chairs and in front of the fireplace lay a red and dusty grey rug
stained from the charcoal and shredded at the sides from mice living
in the bottom of the sofa.

As I entered the kitchen I could see the moonlight shining through the
windows casting a reflection on the wall opposite. Mugs and plates lay
on the surface cold and stained by tea. The sink and taps made from
brass, eroded and layered in dirt, still leaking water into the sink
and every time a drop of water fell an echo passed around the house as
though symbols were being smashed together. I could feel the coldness
from the musty orange and black tiled floor even though I was wearing
shoes it felt as though it had frozen over.

I moved on to the dining room - a big table made from oak and six chairs
filled the room. The table had been laid, the plates and silverware lay
there untouched and unused like a forgotten date. Above the table hung
a beautiful chandelier twinkling in the moonlight. The walls plastered
with cream wallpaper curling in at the corners.


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