Abandoned

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

 One lonesome Oak tree stood alone by the house swaying in the wind as the wind swept by the tree and 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 high 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 rusty gates were far, far back in the distance. Owls couldn’t be heard and there were no leaves on the ground, just some aged concrete steps, a doorway that stood in front of me. 

From outside, the house was tall and thin, made from large dark gray stones that had a rough feel of all this sandwiched together by crumbling cement. Climber plants grew up the house winding around the drain pipes grabbing the little sunlight that reached this desolate place. The windows ratted vigorously from the howling wind, as though they were about to fall out of the frames that were made from rotting wood and being eaten by woodworms. A few potted plants lay next to the door, once there for a neat presentation now wilted and brown, almost certainly dead. The door has been left ajar 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 a 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 two more rooms, which looked to be a kitchen, from all the plates and cups 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 once made from leather, soft and comfy, now thin and worn away from all the use. Under the chairs and fireplace lay a red and dusty gray rug stained from the charcoal and shredded at the sides from mice living at 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 sinks and taps made from brass, eroded and layered in dirt, still leaking water into the sink, 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 gold wallpaper curling in the corners.