The Neglect Outside
The house was empty. It always has been. No human life could have possibly existed there. The dilapidated facade with age-old, flinty stone walls and crumbled picket fences was like a sad smile frozen in time. A wicked malachite-green ivy blanketed every open surface. The nostalgia it emanated resembled the rising petrichor after a long-awaited rain. But the exigent demand of its horrendous condition and unsociable hedges portrayed the dereliction.
The house bore a likeness to a spirit haunted French chateau perched somewhere high on an abandoned ridge in the mist-like rain with cloud-covered skies. The discernable neglect left a stink in the air, just like that of a burial chamber. Why would somebody leave it abandoned, and for how long? It’s so desolate and soul-scalding that passing near it gives me chills.
The Hollow Inside
A shadow lingered by the window in the study room. Its imperceptible yet heavy stares were hard to ignore. The frigid look from the frosty eyes often gives rise to goose-bumps. Is that a look of hostility, or is it welcoming in any way? From time to time, there would be a steady plod on the intricately patterned parquet flooring. The clink-clanks and muffled breaths manifested the presence of someone close yet so far, someone near yet so distant and someone familiar yet so foreign.
The time-worn ochre walls with chipped white wainscoting impersonated the wrinkles in time. The womb-quiet rooms reeked of death, but the lances of light dancing through the broken windows exhibited the only sign of life. Of course, this excludes the slumbering hedgehogs and delicious nuts from the neighbours garden. What mystery does it obscure in its bosom? What’s the story? I often wonder?
Photo by Stéphane Mingot on Unsplash.