abandoned house - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The spirit of the house had rescued itself by sleeping in the walls, by retreating into the welcoming wood away from the dust. It stayed there with the memories of its birth, of the hugs and laughter that once were its colours and music, for that is the way of spirits. So though the floors were bare and the paint was in need of loving care, though the furniture lay still without the warmth of its family, it stood all the same, strong beneath the flakes and dirt of years.
The house had become aware of itself, of the history that echoed within the walls. Somewhere within, mixed with the pain, were images of soft flowers. Yet, if inside felt stagnant, just as a river, it simply needed to flow. And so one day, after time unmeasured, the house opened each door and window. It shivered at first, for the wind felt cold and it was used to the dust and the odour of nothing. It was about to close, to find a way to love the isolation, to become one with the rats who crawled and the sticky spider webs, when in came the fragrance of soft flowers. The house shivered again, but in a different way, this time there was a small fragment of warmth, a tiny brave smile in the walls. There were days that old house did shut every door and window, times darkly shrunken from the world, hoping to be invisible. Yet, as the seasons changed, as Earth circled the sun, the doors and windows opened all the more. They say that the pain blew right out of that house a little at a time and the nature that house craved entered a little at time - the birdsong, blossom and sunshine.
The abandoned house stood in a composed way, as if it had chosen solitude for itself, as if residents were a luxury it could forgo. The floors had been a highly polished parquet, individual blocks lovingly placed and sanded to a smooth finish before the varnish was brushed on with fine bristles. The walls stood firm, the window frames strong, glass triple glazed and whole. All in all, it looked like a movie-set, a place waiting for life to come. The only give-away was the odour, well, that and the dust. It was musty and dry, but nothing opening the doors and windows couldn't solve. A spring clean, some fresh flowers, perhaps the house would enjoy the luxury of company.
Against the dark night sky all Steve could see was the crumbling walls that were nothing more than a ghostly silhouette of some previous existence. The wind whistled through the trees bringing with it the laughter of children who once lived there and the caring call of a mother letting them know dinner was ready.
Vividly he could picture his childhood. The walls didn’t seem so grey when he was only a boy, nor did they seem so small. In his mind he pictured this place as though it were a castle where he and his brother were the Princes. His mother and father would glide through the once pristine halls, the King and Queen of their kingdom. He felt like no time had passed since he moved from this house, yet as he gazed upon the overgrown bushes and the shattered windows it was evident just how wrong he was.
It is easy to say that abandoned houses tend to creak, not in the creepy horror movie kind of a way, generally speaking, but more of in the "oh shit, I should probably get out of here before this thing collapses on me" kind of a way. This was a house that had you hesitant to even step through the doorway.
That said, she stepped through anyway, ignoring the stupid creaking. It wasn't collapsing any time soon, and, if it did, she was going to survive.
She passed by cracked windows and mouldy, browned wooden walls with water stains painting as scars upon skin. Slivers of light shone from the outside, as if invited in to ignite these dusty hues . She walked through narrow doorways, yet ignored them, her eyes still searching. She was going to find it, she was sure. The old, stupid man had practically told her where it was. At that point, she could almost smell it, nearly taste it, like curdled milk on her tongue.
She stopped when she came to a collapsed doorway. Wooden planks barred her from entering, still there from when the northern side of the house had fallen on itself. The boards were cracked and splintery, enough that she could tell it was recent. Still, she had to check.
She approached, peering through the slats, the light streaming in. It looked just like the rest: quaint in size, aging, and creepy. A small bed, fitted for a kid, sat at one end, with a broken night table plopped next to it. The floorboards were caved and broken, leaving the two simple pieces of furniture sloped towards the dirt waiting for them. Then she still saw it... the tiny ornate music box sitting near the foot of the bed, still polished and clean despite years of sitting in this house.
How fitting that she'd find it there. The only question was how to get it.
The abandoned house shuddered on the hill, wishing the morning light would come all the sooner to warm its weary walls. It felt so alone, so empty. How long had it been since it heard the laughter of a precious child? How long had it been since it felt the coolness of fresh paint or contained the fragrance of Sunday dinner?
As the long yearned for golden rays caressed the timber, a stray lamb walked in from the fields, perhaps the door had swung open just for him. His soft snuffling and the sound of his prancing feet was the finest music the house had heard in so many years. After so long in dark silence the house creaked in happiness, the new sounds being as welcome as a lion's roar on the savannah.
The oldest residents of that abandoned house were the spiders. Many generations had laced the walls with cobwebs of intricate beauty, though now even they lay in dusty rags. It had been three decades since a footstep had echoed within those walls, since the dust had been disturbed and the ghosts awoken. The only furniture was an antique pedestal table carved of local oak and upon it a bottle of finest malt whiskey and one up-turned glass.
In the old abandoned house sections of ceiling hang limp in the stagnant air. Fragments of plaster lie damp over a long untrodden floor, their only purpose to soak in the seasonal rain. Cold water seeps through window frames, rotten and blistered, to nurse the mildew and rise up wallpapers that peel. The cupboards are a time-warp of long forgotten brands that barely live on even in the memories of the elderly. All around are the artifacts of a life lived and hastily abandoned, mattresses, dolls, sepia photographs...
The abandoned house stands skeletal on the hill, a crumbled beauty of an era long past. Even her walls no longer keep her safe, no longer repel storms of rain or snow. Stripped of her splendour she lumps under gravity, dying slowly, creaking in the gusting winds.
Through the rain looms a dwelling, casting a shadow against the tree-line. Soon even that will be swallowed by the blackness. Gordon starts a loose jog, Naomi following, until they reach the front door. No light comes from within. Thought the door hangs ajar, the hinges have seen too much rain and opening it takes both of them to push shoulders into the weary wood. Whoever lived in the house abandoned it decades before in the height of the war. The inside is more like an asylum centuries before than anything that could be called a home. Bars rust over single paned windows, some sections of the mullioned glass are absent, channeling the damp wind. If any occupants linger, they aren't human but rodent or bird.
The old mansion was no more than a shack on its foundations. How long the shivering walls could withstand the beckoning call of gravity, the boys didn't know. But this abandoned house was their only hope of evading capture before dawn. Years before they had roamed these parts, daring one another to enter the spookiest rat-infested dumps. This place, number seventeen, had a lockable cellar, dank with water pooling on the concrete. Brian had remembered it first, the others had followed without any talk, their old quite memories enough.
Dust lay over every surface like dirty snow, pristine dust layer, not a foot print anywhere, dust bunnies the size of bowling balls tumbled across the floor boards toward unseen skittles, free papers piled up to the letter box and cascaded all the way to the foot of the rough wooden stairs, old tea cups lay on a coffee table thickly encrusted with dried up mould, dust covered mirrors, smell of mildew, stale air, air thick with dust, shafts of light bursting through gaps in the boarded up window, light streaming through the gaps in the heavy velvet curtains, absolute silence, not even the hum of a refrigerator, the houses only occupants weaved their webs between the spindles of the stair banisters and from the ceiling to the wall, old cobwebs billowed in the draft.
But after all, the attic was not the most terrible part of the house. It was the dank, humid cellar which somehow exerted the strongest repulsion on us, even though it was wholly above ground on the street side, with only a thin door and window-pierced brick wall to separate it from the busy sidewalk. We scarcely knew whether to haunt it in spectral fascination, or to shun it for the sake of our souls and our sanity. For one thing, the bad odor of the house was strongest there; and for another thing, we did not like the white fungous growths which occasionally sprang up in rainy summer weather from the hard earth floor.
The grim and gloomy building was the worst excuse for a house she'd ever seen, it was more like a a long-abandoned prison or insane asylum rather than a once glamorous house. The doors and windows were covered with a thick layer dust that looked like it has been un touched for years. The windows of the "house" looked back at her like the eyes of an empty soul, along with the grand door at the entryway to the "house" that seemed to give her the impression it was a gateway to hell.
The door creaks open, moving open a centimeter at a time. It could move faster, but the wood of the door has grown moldy and soft with water and neglect, and if you pushed it harder, you'd probably push right through the door. Once inside, a thick coating of dust and mold coats everything. You step tentatively, as there are already several dark holes where floorboards have snapped, weak from mold and pressured downwards by the weight of the gigantic dust bunnies that have formed. Cobwebs brush your face as you step deeper into the house. A shiver rushes down your spine. You can't tell what, but there is something unbelievably spooky about this place.
The rotting wooden door creaked slowly open and echoing footsteps invaded the silence that hung like a cloak around the house. A thick carpet of dust clung to every object, the rays of light shining through the shattered glass windows catching on the particles suspended in the stagnant air. He moved deliberately, dust billowing into clouds as he passed. He continued to move through the house, kicking up more dust until it was difficult to see through the billions of particles that now swirled in the air. Then he came to a door, faded green, paint curling with age, brass handle almost consumed by a thick network of cobwebs, reaching out, he turned it.
The house had been abandoned in the great depression. When the land around it had become a dust bowl there had been no point in staying or trying to sell. The roof now sagged in the middle and were it not for a hole that let the pooled water escape, it would have caved in long ago. The paint that had been white was not so peeled off that it looked out of place amid the dark of rotting wood. The windows were boarded up by the family who thought they would return one day. it was a fine house in it's day, but for most of it's life it had only sheltered insects and the occasional bird. Even the once glossy stairs were too weak to bare weight. Inside was dank, gloomy, cold. The furniture, untouched in decades, was decaying and frayed. The floor was awash with the detritus of wildlife. The door hung loose on it's hinges and banged in the wind that gusted over the prairie. One day it will succumb to the demands of gravity; but for this empty shell stands, a monument to harsh times.
What I heard in my youth about the shunned house was merely that people died there in alarmingly great numbers. That, I was told, was why the original owners had moved out some twenty years after building the place. It was plainly unhealthy, perhaps because of the dampness and fungous growths in the cellar, the general sickish smell, the drafts of the hallways, or the quality of the well and pump water.
The stairs were slapped against the chipboard wallpaper as if they were an afterthought. They fell too close to the entrance and were uncommonly narrow. The rail was simply a plank of wood supported by three mean spindles. It looked for all the world that it would come crashing down with even the weight of a child, yet it must have been there thirty years or more. It was hard to tell the original colour of the carpet, likely it was once beige but now it was closer to a muddy slate. Taryn took a deep breath before placing even some of her weight on the lowest step and kept her hands clear away from the rail. The squeak did not surprise her but it was immediate and loud, if there was anyone upstairs they now knew she was here. After freezing to listen for a few moments she began to ascend against the advice of her anxiety.
Inside would be grey streaks of black across the walls as mold from the damp nights begins to seep in. Flaking speckles of paint would line the floor with dust and the corspes of unfortunate creatures. The disused wooden furniture would be rotting; stained with linchen while the curtains would hang limp and moth-eaten. The place would feel still, heavy with expectation and foreboding waiting for one more lifeform to creak across the worn wooden floorboards.
Outside the house's roof would be green with moss and caved in at one place. The windows would be dark and grey with dirt while ivy would cling to the outer walls. Around it would be unkempt undergrowth as if the house had grown up from the very earth.
Beams of light streamed through the worn wooden slats covering the holes that once contained glistening panes of glass. Thousands of dust particles danced and swirled in each ray of light that shone through, onto shards of crystal from a smashed chandelier that once hung from the ceiling; the refracted light spattering the shattered and worn black and white tile floor with an iridescent rainbow of colour. Despite the lustrous glow the light beams played upon this room, the depleted nature of this building could not be concealed. Dust clung to every surface, cobwebs lay draped over cloth covered furniture and the smell of damp hung in the air like a disease that had eradicated the fruitful perfume of the outside air long ago. A house once loved, now abandoned.
The silent, almost grim desolation of the cottage was a curious and striking contrast to the cheerful aspect of all the others which I had seen in the neighbourhood, and this it was that tempted me to cross a stile that was close to the gate and stroll up to the cottage. The windows had been barred up with timber that was giving way in some places. The door, which was of oak, was firm and well secured, and over it I noticed a stone on which were carved some words, of which at first, owing to the incrustation of lichen, I was able only to distinguish the letters "ottage." By the aid of the ferule of my walking stick I succeeded in clearing off the lichen so as to enable me to decipher the inscription. It was "Bendemeer Cottage."
The stairs ahead were twisted in a perfect spiral, like a child's slinky toy pulled from each end. Each stair was likely a deep walnut, but with the thick layer of undisturbed dust it was hard to tell. The inner edge was painted antique cream, and when Saskia disturbed the dust layer the paint was quite perfect underneath; no dirt and no flaking or dents. It was as if it was perfect one day and abandoned the next, just like the rest of the world. So where were the skeletons? Or if still alive, why didn't anybody take their clothes or possessions? She let her hand fall on to the black iron rail, rough in it's rustic charm and placed her weight on the first step. There was no creak or sign of rot, they were as solid as the day they were made. She walked swiftly to the top leaving her shoe prints behind.
The house stood still, and so did time. The teal paint was peeling off at a rapid pace, and the windows seemed to stare back at you, almost as if they were challenging you to step inside. It seemed tired. The porch light continuously flickered on and off, its bulb ready to go off at a moments' notice. A pack of ravens abruptly landed on the railing near the staircase, simultaneously gathering together on both sides of the railing. The grass was dead; no longer a vibrant Kelly green but more a dull shade of apple crunch laying on the floor. The door hung wide open, inviting you in, almost teasing you to take a look inside. But nothing was to be seen beyond the house, as you stood from afar, observing the small action. The wind howled, and as the door finally slammed close, presumably by the wind, your eyes, once transfixed on the home, looked away in disbelief. You wouldn't be coming back.
The isolated house dissolved into the shrubs. The withering trees arrogantly weeped the imminent demise of their master. Layers of dust encrusted the finely cut glass pieces and fissured window panes bordered the obnoxious framework of the house. The shut doors ambiguously creaked in sorrow of its dissolution. Hordes of rodents beckon you to an aged drawing room besieged with enormous spider webs and a rather jaw-dropping, eye-popping & body shocking aura.
The house had been carved out of the hillside by an eccentric billionaire. It had been unapologetically modern, a series of concrete cubes with floor to ceiling windows and a swimming pool. He had designed it and directed the construction personally, but like may super rich he just didn't know enough about the mechanics of everyday living. The kitchen could rival any magazine spread anywhere, but there wasn't enough power going to it to warm the toaster, let alone three double ovens. The bathroom was top-of-the-line bespoke fixtures but there was not enough water pressure for a power shower and the bathtub would take five hours to fill. Maybe he would have fixed it up if the foundations hadn't shifted, cracking a load bearing wall right up to the ornamental garden flat roof. It was so isolated that in the seven years it had stood empty not a thing had been stolen. A damp plasma screen still hung on the off-white wall and the minimalist furniture were original Alvar Aalto pieces.
When Joe had said "abandoned house" when he suggested our next urban exploring destination, I was thinking cobwebs, rats, old creaky floorboards, and don't-step-there-you'll-fall! But he hadn't actually checked out the location, just heard some dudes talking about it. When we got there, we were all pointing out how lame and un-abandoned it looked, and when we go inside the house there were only a few spiderwebs. The carpet was a bit stained, and there was a lot of dust. But it was just another duplex in a row of duplexes, and further investigation revealed a hydroponics system filled with algae, the most interesting thing in the entire place.
From the gate a pathway once gravelled, but now almost overgrown with grass, led up through a fair-sized lawn to a long, one-storied cottage, stoutly built, the windows and door of which were faced with stone, which, like that of the piers, was also stained with lichen. The grass, pushed itself high over the threshold of the door and almost reached the windowsills. The slates on the roof appeared to be nearly all perfect, but were covered with brown or grey patches of moss or lichen. A few of the slates had fallen away and exposed part of a rafter.
In the course of my rambles I chanced one day to pass a rusty iron gate fastened by an equally rusty chain, the base of which was partially concealed by tall, rank grass, showing that it had not been opened for a long time. The gate was hung upon two stone piers covered with lichen. On the top of one was a stone globe. That which had surmounted the other had been removed, or had fallen off through the action of time and weather.
Dust layered on the floor, like a thick carpet, muffling my footsteps. Cobwebs hang off the walls, their owners nowhere to be seen. Damp seeping across the ceiling, like reaching fingers, the smell overpowering. Shafts of sunlight burst through the boarded up windows, casting a dim light across the room. A ripped up dogs bed lay neglected in the corner of the room, no occupants. The smell of mildew and mould made me cover my mouth and nose. It was unbearable. Thick brown and green moss covered every surface, absorbing the airs moisture.
The brightly painted door is half off its hinges, it's still shiny knocker dangling with gravity. The path is still perfect brickwork, the mortar holding back the weeds that have overtaken the neighbouring paths with ease. Usually that's a bad sign, if someone's taking care of the place I'm not going in. But the path like everything else about the house reeks of recent renovation. Nobody's been here in a while I'll bet, not for some weeks or more. So this time I'll let the kid pick the house, likely it's as good as any other. For some reason he's squirming so badly I can barely hold him. So once inside I let him down. If there was anyone here they'd have heard him and either come out fighting or else fled already...
The steps are old, unvarnished and slippery with the recent rain. I grab the rail with my free hand and we move up gingerly, and for the most part in silence. I take a stone and cast it through the broke window, if anyone's in there they'll startle. Nothing. Guess it's empty after all. I push on the door expecting it to swing open but it doesn't. Lucky for me Dad had us picking locks before we could pick our own noses. I take out a hair pin and a credit card and the door still doesn't move. Bolted from the inside. Now that is interesting, hence the broken windows I'll bet. Despite the kiddie carrier out front I'm gonna leave this one. Bolts drawn home from the inside don't bode well and I'm hardly in the best condition to fight with Darwin on my hip.
Again I could feel the burning eyes. They all had drooping spider webs clinging onto them. The hallway floor was wooden and creaky with a brown and green pattered runner going down the middle leading me to the front door and the staircase. The front door was a double door with stained glass windows and an old welcome mat buried. To the right of it was a little wooden table with a clear glass vase with dead flowers drooping from it. The house felt unnaturally still, and the only sound I could hear was my own breathing, and the creak beneath my feet with each and every step.
The mansion stood isolated from civilization but seemed to be inhabited by somebody. But who? nobody really knew but my friends and I wanted to find out.
Standing in front of the furtive, rusted black iron gates, I could feel the cold gaze of people walking past, they could probably smell my fear. Gently pushing the gates open ,they let out an ear piercing screech. Walking up the long and cracked windy driveway, I could see strange shaped hedges and unusual lawn ornaments placed carefully on the brown grass. I felt like I was being watched. I felt the glare of eyes burning me.
The path lead to the black door I opened it and stepped inside, only to be attacked by a cloud of dust and the strong stench of mold. It was the kitchen.
The kitchen was small, cluttered and dusty. The cupboards were faded green with white flowers and handles. The counters were a dark green, black and white marble with a coat of thick grey dust hugging it. The sink was also very dusty and it had dirty plates and bowls in it and a leaking tap. The tiles on the floor were green and dirty. The green and brown moss pushing the tiles apart. Insects and plants had claimed the kitchen as their own. The plants were even forcing their way through holes in the wall and there was a small birds nest in one of the drawers. I went into the hallway. It was dark and gloomy with large portraits in gold frames hanging high on the walls, all the way down the hallway
Emily looked at the abandoned house, she'd passed it every day since she started school. It was just like all the other red-bricks on the street, but the front lawn weeds grew past her knees. If there ever was a path it was gone, buried. The blue door had that sun-bleached look and the window frames were more bare rotting wood than white paint. She bit her lip. A shiver ran through her body like an electric current and the rain blurred her vision. She waded into the late winter greenery, forcing her legs though it. Sucking in a breath as she knocked on the door, knowing there would be no answer. She twisted the handle...
The house looks decrepit like it was falling apart. The window was covered in dust. Paper and clothes are strewn all over the table. There are crumbs all over the table and dirty dishes sitting on the floor. There are smudges on the windows and mirrors. There are cobwebs in the corners, the drains are clogged with hair and there are old news papers pilled up in the corners. This neglected house looks like witch's home.
The house was different. The walls creaked like a child screaming for attention, the cobwebs were no longer just a nuisance, but now a barrier blocking access to several parts of the building. It would seem just like another disregarded and unloved building on Falcon Street but this one... was glowing.
Well at last, the rookie detective, Marcus Grey, has arrived to empty guest room. The door open ajar as the light from the sun shined into the hallway. He pushed the door open and it swung open with ease, a blast of air conditioned cold air blasted him. The walls a greyish blue with the occasionally dirt smudges. It wasn’t the largest guest room but, it was a decent hotel overall. Marcus walked to the windows with gloves on, looking for fingerprints but, frowned when only one pair of fingerprints came up. He walked around the room to find a suitcase under the guest’s bed and he found a nothing but a note with an address on a sticky note. Marcus seemed to be quite befuddled by the note and reached for the note. He grabbed the note and put the address in his phone. It was to a flower shop.
I, Marcus Grey have been summoned to search for evidence of where a guest, Drew Morgan suddenly disappeared from his guest room. I walked down the hotel to see a beam of sunlight shine throughout the hotel hallway. I came to a realization that the light is coming from the guest’s room and the door was open ajar. I pushed it open with ease and was blasted by the chilly air conditioned air and saw the walls were a greyish blue with some dirt stains. My eyes scanned the room and I saw it wasn’t the largest hotel room but, it was livable. I walked to only window and put on some gloves on my hands so, I could check for fingerprints in case Mr. Morgan left through the window. I felt myself frown when only the cleaning lady’s prints came up. I put the cotton swab into a evidence bag and walked to the guest’s bed to find a suitcase under the bed. When I opened it, I was quite perplexed by what was inside and it was just a note with a address. I plugged the address into my phone and it was to a flower shop. How peculiar.
Strikes of lightning light up the dark and musty reminiscence of what used to be a bedroom. Sounds of thunder echoes through my ears, taunting each and every thought. I pray. I pray for all this to stop. I am alone. Alone in the omniscient, vortex of evil. My head feels beaten, my eyes are swollen from the flood of tears stringing my face. My lips are sown, my lungs are full of poisonous oxygen that can't escape. I feel powerless, the adrenaline rush must've stopped. I feel lost. The musky smell of rotten blood attacks my sense of smell. I try to close my eyes and concentrate on something beautiful, pure, holy, a distraction from anything but this moment.
But I can't.
I can never escape.
I have seen too much