The woods are deep and dark, trees standing tall just as the autumn breeze set in, blowing carelessly through my hair as I sat by a tree base.
Looking at the mansion which has given me so much grief and pain throughout my years, the old stationary house by the sea, the old play set broken, and the ground covered in leaves.
The house was built by my family in the 18th century, it still has the wooden beams and floors, and round crossed windows upstairs, with large bay windows downstairs.
What used to be white stone walls is now wind swept with sea water, large wood decking outside with a chair constantly rocking, large pillars guarding the entrance running all the way up to an outer balcony on the second floor, where the railings are being stripped of colour.
There are two ways to reach the house, by a long dark path through the woods and the harbour.
All of this is now mine, but it comes with history and great responsibility.
On the nearby beach, on the embankment there is always a fair and a grand stately house hotel is overlooking the bay. It was known as the rich people’s paradise but was frequently raided by pirates that came into the alcove bay.
I was never alone in the house although it always looked that way to the outside.
the inside of the house holds old portraits of family past, lining the walls high and musky in scent. the wooden floors creek as the wind blows, cobwebs line the corners and the attic has not been entered for many years.
I was never alone in the house although it always looked that way to the outside.
the inside of the house holds old portraits of family past, lining the walls high and musky in scent. the wooden floors creek as the wind blows, cobwebs line the corners and the attic has not been entered for many years.
