The House
By Lucy Mitchell
the house is deep. Only the corner of a step
Standing in the dimly lit hallway I listen
I find myself saying, “She looks exactly like
is poking through.
me.”
Fear starts to skulk around me, its
Turning away from the window I
to the old building speak to me in its
language of groans and creaks. It smells
head towards the fireplace. As I get closer I
long spindly fingers sending shivers down
musty and forgotten. In front of me
notice a painting in an elaborate gold frame
my spine. Thump. Thump. Something is
stretches a vast oak staircase. Tilting my
hanging above. The pale light from the
moving around upstairs. Slowly, I make my
head upwards, I see stairs spiral into the
window reveals a young woman’s head and
way to the door and peek upstairs. I feel
ceiling. I make a silent promise to venture
shoulders. Her small face is surrounded by a
torn. Half of me wants to go sit underneath
up there once I have explored downstairs.
mass of black curls. She has delicate doll
the desk like a small frightened child and the
like features with a tiny nose and rosebud
other half of me is curious to see who else
I am not alone. Shadows come out to play
lips. There is something familiar about the
resides here.
on the walls as the bulb in the light starts to
woman.
A strange tingly feeling creeps over me.
I creep to the bottom of the stairs
Moving away, I walk over to the
flicker.
and start to climb. As I reach the first floor,
tall leather chairs. I see myself sat watching
an eerie coldness starts to seep into my
making me jolt. Protectively I step back
the flames of the fire dance around huge
bones. My breath hangs lifelessly in the air
towards the front door.
logs of wood. The fireplace is bare and dark. and I start to shiver.
BANG. A door slams shut upstairs
I can always leave. I say to myself
reassuringly.
Gasping, I catch sight of an old
It’s not been used for some time.
There is a desk in the far corner of
man coming towards me, carrying the
the room. I run my hand over the smooth
clothed lifeless body of what looks like an
bare neck sending me scurrying with fright
wood and picture myself writing letters. It’s
old woman. Her frail frame is limp, her
into one of the rooms, leading off from the
like this strange house is trying to tell me
lavender colored dress hangs loosely and
hall.
something.
her grey curly head lolls in his arms.
A breath of icy cold air blows onto my
I enter a large drawing room
complete with an overpowering stone
get closer to the mirror instantly recognizing woman in a voice which is tinged with
fireplace, two huge leather chairs and a giant the young woman with the curls from the
window framed by long velvet drapes.
painting in my reflection. “How strange?” I
Peering outside makes me take a sharp
murmur glancing back at the painting above
intake of breath. The snow coated world is a
the fireplace and then back again at the
brilliant eye squinting white. I notice that
mirror. Touching my curls and then my face
the snow on the path and steps leading up to
“Please, hang on,” he says to the
Above the desk is a long mirror. I
panic.