The house gave off a dull, ghostly feeling that hung in the air like sparkles from fireworks, except the feeling was dark and would send shivers down anyone spine. But not mine. Nothing could scare me. Sometimes I almost felt as if I was the ghost; I was the frightenning ghoul that even made grown men wet themselves with fright. Now I was going to enter the house. The remote, desolote house. The house that was haunted.
I began to walk down the cobbled path. Either side of me were hegdes hung thickly with rotting leaves and brambles. And infront was a towering door, it’s wood was rotting with age. As I yanked it open, it screeched a witches curse. I just smirked at it’s ‘scary’ stupidity.
The interior of the house was aged and decayed. The windows were merely fragments of glass glued poorly to the inner edges of the windows frames. Paint was peeling off of the walls and ceiling and the hall was spasely furnished. An oak coat tree lurked in the corner, a single moth-eaten coat hung upon it. The floor was rotting with age and certain floor boards were missing, revealing the cowering darkness of the basement.
Everything was still.
I took few steps forward. I trembled slightly. Not that I was scared at all, I felt something. A chill prehaps.
A sudden creak stired the house.
I stopped in my tracks, suddenly cautious of what was to come.