The hallway was dull and smelt of dust mixed with old age. Paintings hung up of what looked to be important rich people, their eyes following my every move. To the left was an old wooden stairway leading upwards to the second floor each step looked so delicate and worn that if you were to walk up them you would step right through them. Straight ahead led to two more rooms, which looked to be a kitchen, from all the cups and plates left out, a dining room, and to the right of me was the lounge area. The lounge had large bookcases on each wall stacked with thick data books caped in dust. There was no television just a sofa, two chairs and a fireplace; the thick smell of charcoal from the once burning fireplace had spread around the room choking me up on the inside. The chairs and sofa were made from black leather once soft and comfy now thin and worn away from all the use. Under the chairs and in front of the fireplace lay a red and dusty grey rug stained from the charcoal and shredded at the sides from mice living in the bottom of the sofa.