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.