The House BY HARRY PLUMMER

The house was dark: dark because it hadn't been touched in decades. A wall of suffocation surrounded the ruins; the toxic stench of decay filling lungs. Taking a deep breath of as little fresh air as I could, I pressed myself on to examine the crusty ruins. In a trance I moved forward.

Looking closely at the windows, every view possible was obscured by grit and dirt. Each frame was rotten to its core, decaying and splintered. In the middle of the bottom windows, stood a large set of double doors, barred shut. 'They must be hiding something from us,' I thought.

The house was completely neglected and abandoned, seemingly empty for many years. Vines had crept up the wood sheel, weaving around anything it could. These sjacles of knotted bared wire suffocated and strangled anything in its path. It climbed up as much as it could until there was nothing else to ensnare.

The driveway lay full of weeds, dotted with flung broken remnants of bricks. It looked as if a 7.2 magnitude earthquake had used the same path. The weeds were browning, the same colour as the grass opposite it, that reached nearly the height of me. Surrounding this area, were large black gates that I had first peered through. These twisted railings, the crumbling bricks and sky-high grass should have acted as a warning. And if they hadn't, then the ghostly shadow that loomed beyond them should have been. Not to me.

Created By
Mrs Price
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