a spooky house - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The house lives as if under constant shadow, as if the sun keeps reaching for those walls that shrink away. And so its windows stay black without the rippling effect of the light, never knowing that the dust that clings, the dirt of years, could so easily be washed away. The walls are so cold to the touch, stealing the heat from these warm fingers, never caring if my own heart froze. That there are ghosts inside is a certainty, that they bluster around screaming is a fact, yet only the house can usher them out and wish for those rays to kiss it some warmth.
Until that then the paint will peel and the wood will rot, forever wishing for the warmth of a touch.
The house hadn't been lived in for sixteen years, longer than the lifetimes of the gang who now crossed the leaf-strewn threshold. They flashed the lights from their cell phones into the gloom, for all the good it did, the room remained stubbornly dark. The windows were caked in grime and for the most part boarded up, leaving only the slimmest of slithers for the rays to struggle though. As they entered the old dining room the light cast from the open doorway was lost from view and several of them blundered into dusty cobwebs. There was a flash of brown fur as several rats dived for cover and the eldest intruder screamed. After a few moments of laughter to relieve the tension they became buoyant and bold. Then the front door slammed shut, likely caught by a rogue gust, and their bravado evaporated faster than summer rain. All pretence lost, they bolted for the way they came in and bunched in the wooden frame three abreast before tumbling into the daylight.
The overgrown branches covered the door as if it was warning me off, but a deal was a deal so I pulled away the branches without a sweat and opened the door. It made a creaking noise like every abandoned house did and then slammed shut behind me. 'It's just the wind' I tried to convince myself. A foul stench invaded my nostrils, I looked around to see where the smell was coming from and nearly vomited at the sight, it was a body, a bit of flesh was still there being eaten by the millions of grey rats, Harry, the person who I had come to find.
The house was small even by local standards; two rooms on each level and a single entrance. I think that's what spooked people the most. This just wasn't the kind of district you could afford to enter any space with only one entrance, because that also meant only one exit. It's drummed into us from pre-school "Always know your exits." Even the windows were too meanly proportioned to squeeze through, even for us skinny kids. Then there was the smell, something inscrutable but with a familiar undertone no-one could quite put their finger on. So little by little gravity pulls it down and the weather makes it more decrepit.
The windows of the old house were oversized and divided into many parts like the compound eyes of a fly. Even though it had been deserted for living memory Simon couldn't pass it without feeling watched and a chill shooting down his spine. Tales handed down from great grandparents told of the family just vanishing, of the garden growing unnaturally fast and flickering lights of unearthly colours in the dead of night, After so many years of dereliction the roof no longer kept out the rain and many panes of glass had been shattered by kids who dared each other to cast stones. The red brick was crumbling and the place was riddled with asbestos. Sometimes in a gust the front door would bang on it's hinges making passersby jump. Inside it was said the furniture was still laid out as it was in the early 1900's but was now decaying and mildewed. Some said that the dining table was still laid for a dinner no-one lived to eat and the old owners stared from their cold portraits on the wall.
The house wasn't some abandoned Scooby-Doo manor, it was small, terraced and sandwiched between two far larger and more impressive abodes. It's window's weren't quite right, not really centred and they stayed resolutely shut even in the hottest summer. At night the house was pitch black and not a soul had ever seen a person enter or leave. Yet every Sunday a newspaper was delivered to the doormat and by Monday it had gone. There were rumours of it being a drug den, but the lack of foot traffic seemed to rule that out. Some said they had seen a silhouette of a knife behind the frosted bathroom window. Some swore they had heard the rattle of chains through the keyhole in the dead of night. An industrious neighbour had even hired equipment to check the ground for concealed tunnels. But for all their bluster the closest anyone went was the newspaper girl, and even she threw it from a distance. It was just too spooky, but at least it added some drama to their otherwise pedestrian lives.
The mouldy, rotting, brown house stood in front of the boy, only fear keeping his feet planted to the ground. Moaning and creaking noises being projected from the house. The grass was damp from the evening fog and every time he took a step the mud squelched. The bottom step squeaked as he applied pressure with his foot, he let out a sigh of relief as the old structure hadn’t swallowed him up. The door, slightly off colour from the rest of the house, loomed over him like a giant as he reached for the brass door handle.
The musty smell of a house that had been long abandoned filled my nose. It was dim and uninviting. The furniture dusty and old, looking as if it would crumble to dust if I touched it. Mould ate away at the walls and flooring, and cobwebs laced the bordered up windows and portraits of self-righteous people who once lived in the house. Suddenly, the floor caved in and I fell down into the darkness of the basement.
Nothing of interest was in the room, only dimly lit candles and trunks of old, moth eaten clothes. I felt as if someone, or something, was watching me, waiting to drag me into the shadows.
Surrounded by thistles, and half-hidden behind a red and green tangle of rampant ivy, we should never have entered the dilapidated property we stumbled upon, deep in the woods.
The door was bolted from the inside, but boys will be boys, and there was no glass in the window frames. The air within was dust-filled and stale, and all was dark and gloomy.
“Shh, what was that? I heard something.”
Holding our breath, and with audible heartbeat, the rest of us listened in anticipation.
“Something's just grabbed hold of me,” cried Danny, as his foot went through the rotten floorboard.
Did something really snarl? Was it really brimstone we'd smelt?
“Don't suppose you've got any toilet tissue in your pocket?” Tom asked as we made our way home.
The house had that spooky charm, it was dull and quiet, cobwebs everywhere, chandeliers suspended from the ceiling and that odd knock no one could seem to explain.