You know what that is? It’s fear. It hangs from the cobwebs on the walls. It loiters in the shadows in the corners. It’s in the rusty stains on the carpet, the blood spatter up the curtains, the putrid stench in the stale air.
We don’t know what happened here. Not for sure. Some say he killed her. Chopped her up into little pieces and hid her in the pipes in the walls. Others say she fell asleep in the rocking chair next to the fire and went unnoticed for months and months and months. That when they eventually found her, she’d rotted to dust. Some say she didn’t die here at all – she just disappeared. All I know is this; there’s a chill in the rooms at Lewisham House. It’s not natural. I’ve seen things. Books that vanish from one room only to turn up in another. The creak from the rocking chair echoing round the house. Mirrors that fall from the walls. Plates smashed to bits on the kitchen floor. And writing … writing all over the skirting boards. I won’t lie to you, the place needs some work. But with the right touch, I think you could turn this into a lovely family home. Would you like to see the garden? It’s got a veranda to die for, and a gorgeous cherry blossom right at the far end. Plenty of room for a swing set or two! Shall we?”
No comments:
Post a Comment