The Haunted House
Pushing the heavy gates open the touch of the iron bars, as cold as ice, seized up my hand completely. Even though I could feel the unevenness of the old cobbled path beneath me, they were smooth in contrast to the crunching of the odd dead leaf that I stepped on. Carrying on up the path the grass carried on forever into the horizon, a dull grey colour as if it had lost the will to live and stopped growing altogether.
One lonesome Oak tree stood by the house swaying in the wind and as the wind swept by the tree 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 grass. The air was cold and numb and with every breath I drew a misty, chilly exhale followed.