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 color 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 windswept 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. Paintings hung up of what looked to be important rich people, their eyes following my every move. To the left was an 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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