The Haunted House

Still, the house waited, but nothing came...

Over the hills, past the radiance of the landscape; the splendour of the oceans; the allure of the beautiful sunsets, rose the house. It was always dark here:mist shrouded it, ominous fog enveloped it, so nothing could escape...The house was near to tipping off the edge of the hill it sat on, almost thundering down the precipitous drop, but it clung on with it's bony fingers.

The house itself was made of stone which time had chipped away at, so only a few blocks were left. Stone was its mood too-hostile and unforgiving-it took no pity on any lone traveller that had lost its way, and ended up stranded in the suffocating presence that was the house. Not even the spiders spent long here and the cobwebs lay unfinished and forgotten.

The towering gates swung rythmically in the breeze, groaning as if a heavy burden hung in the air, smothering any exberance that may be left clinging to the splinters with its tired hands. The cracked window panes shivered in the bleak night wishing, hoping for some warmth to soothe their splintered glass. There was no sound, apart form the creaking of the gate in the wind. The bitter gale blew, but even that could not penetrate the iciness that resided there.

Inside, the beady eyes of the pictures that had been hung on the wall for hundreds of years seemed to follow anyone unlucky enough to be stumbling down the sinister corridor. In the drawing room lay the remains of a party. A tattered banner with faded letters hung from the ceiling and half eaten part food decomposed on the dusty plates. Coats and handbags were flung over chairs. The gramophone with its rusting arm poised, waited for the next song that would never be heard. But why had they left so quickly?

Although it had not seen a human for years, the house rested there, pulling everything into its vortex of chaos and terror, knowing. Knowing someone would come soon.

Still, the house waited, but nothing came...