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Descriptive Writing – The Abandoned House0
By - Posted 4th July, 2015 at 9:07 pm

Warning: Not for the faint-of-heart 


The green pool was still. Lifeless. Disguised by the autumn leaves of the sycamore trees. Beyond the pool of envy and greed, a hard-beaten path is unveiled. The harsh sunlight falls along the path, past the animals, beyond the trees. Beyond the greying, rotten bunkhouse.


A small bird dances across the sky overhead, following the soft, sleep-inducing light, which is about to fall into night. Out of the trance, the bird found itself hovering over the run-down broken house.


Not a home – a house.



The outside sun shines brightly, yet all light is filtered out by the moth-eaten curtains and refuses to furnish the dark and dingy room. So the room remains as dark as a grave. There were layers of paint, wallpaper… more paint, starting to crumble off the wall. Each layer could be peeled away to reveal hidden secrets. Old skeletons in her closet. But, the layers remain unpeeled and the secrets remain undiscovered.


Stories untold.


The walls were otherwise empty in the run-down house. There was a small, square window, heavily disguised with a layer of yellowing floral net curtains. The curtains rattled with the lightest wind. Fragile. They seemed as if they were going to snap – like the bones of an ageing woman.


Through the window, a soft ray of light hits the floor. All the colours of the rainbow dance together on the canvas, then merge to form a confused blur. Amongst the haze of buttercup yellows, sky blues and apple greens, in the corner of the room, was a dented metal tin of paint, with a threatening drizzle of blood-red paint slowly oozing down the side.


It had passed its expiry date…


Perhaps someone had finally given up redecorating. Refurnishing. Reinventing.


The walls displayed no pictures. No identity. This was not a family home. All that hung there was a small, square, slightly crooked, mirror.


A moth-eaten rug lay in the middle of the room, disguising only half of the dampened, dark, wooden floorboards. The floorboards creaked noisily, as the rocking chair swings in time with the majestic grandfather clock standing next to it. The pendulum is old now, tarnished so it is almost charcoal black. The clock sways back and forth, back and forth. It never stops.


In the next room, there is nothing, and the walls are blackened, through the efforts of a kitchen fire. The flame was small and harmless, yet the smoke it allowed to wander around the house was deadly. The only item left intact was a child’s rag doll, sitting on the windowsill, her emotionless glass eyes piercing through the darkness at the blackened door. Though the door is a grand staircase guarded by two menacing gargoyles. They stare, unfeeling, towards the rag doll, silently sending threats.


There is a nursery at the top of the stairs. Inside is canary-yellow, and almost as perfect as the day it was created. In one dust-consumed corner sits a small rocking horse and an old dolls house. It is a replica of the house it resides in, but without the doom and gloom, which lives in the original. Opposite the playthings sits a simple white cot, with pink blankets laid haphazardly over the top. This room is tinted orange with the fading sunlight streaming through the large window.


The view is unobstructed for miles. Beyond the jungle of wilting flowers, of rusting metal tools and of unused furniture lays a land of mysteries and untold tales. There is a willow tree, surrounded by a magical aura, protecting it from the rest of the world. In the distance, the great globe of fire was slowly falling behind the luscious green hills, giving way for the world to plunge into the pitch-black skies of the night. The light is slowly drizzling away now, leaving the last brave specks to complete their dance across the floorboards.


Just outside the abandoned nursery, there is a darkened hatch in the ceiling. The cover has broken and fallen away, allowing the blackness to cascade down to the floor. It was like an abyss… it had no beginning and no end. It was unfathomable.


The overwhelming darkness beckons. Into the shadows, eyes slowly adjusting. There are piles of cardboard boxes, each one displaying a faded label. Books. Toys. Christmas decorations. None of the boxes had been opened for years; they had been left for dead. One box lays open on the floor, labelled “Photographs”. A single frame has been thrown on the floor, the glass shattered into a thousand pieces. Thick droplets of deep red blood rest on the top of each razor-sharp shard, and the photo within is missing. It lies across the room, creased and faded. It depicts a family scene, last Christmas. They had gathered around the tree, and their faces would display equal vast smiles, if you could see them, but the faces were viciously scratched out in a rage of fury, blackened by a deadly ballpoint pen. It looked fresh – terrifying. Someone was there, hiding between those boxes.


The wall above the victim displays a message to whomever discovers the body.


          Don’t Look Behind


It was written in blood. Suddenly, everything else faded into oblivion. There was a silhouette crouching down in the shadows, like a lion, ready to pounce on its prey. The only thing left was to run. But the hatch had disappeared, nowhere in sight. The creature circled the dusty attic, marking the boundaries of its territory. It made no noise, fading into the nothingness that had overtaken this land. Nothing could survive here.


I hear an almighty crash. Behind me. The warning rings in my head- Don’t Look Behind. Another crash. Don’t Look. Then silence. Is it safe? I turn my head. The creature is so close I can feel its breath caressing my face. I knew then – I was next.

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