A place to be afraid of
A putrid scent enveloped the atmosphere, a dimly lit candle flailed its, sparks thrown about across the air shuddering, quivering, trembling in fear as a draught of cold air was brought upon it, as it bent and twisted, vast shadows emerged from it, protruded as it crept through the door and what lay beyond was to far to be grasped from the wildest, most inventive imaginations. Ivy crept up the tinted frames, the pine-green snake, gnawing at the black pipe that tied the exterior, a ribbon so frantically drawn and bundled it flummoxed to where its origin lay hidden beneath far from the visual reach of the naked eye, or so deeply drowned in the sea of mysteries that cradled the very earth that you must tread on to reach this isolation. It was as if it had been tossed from the sky or jumped from the solemn, gentle ground that shook in fear to its appearance. So hastily it distorted the land, the trees forcibly stretched and leaning to one side, a grave inquiry hung on their faces, darkness swerving in and out through distant horizon the sun blurred by the hazy mist that dared to cling to the surface. The derelict dwelling like a painting, gradually smudged over time and bent by the corners, the metallic frame rusting of old-age; completely embodied the very life cycle of this so called home.
It resonated with rumours, weaving through the ears of the tens, then the hundreds to the thousands, so not a soul had been seen due to the immense fear that obscured the truth of this structure, a thick mist that swirled, the gate that opened to hell. Each lie flung about the town, then slipped into the cities than throughout the country it had been branded a large stamp so all from near and far could be known to the spit of land that had been avoided by the rest.
Some say that blood rimmed the red paint which coated its ceiling and a dreaded silence had been cast onto it, a demon lurked in its mysteries and killed its inhabitants seized by the impulses to kill any human soul that worshipped the name of the lord, its floorboards, some loose, some chipped, mould clogged the refreshening, gushing air and spirits moaned in the night presumed to endure the howling pain of the wind. I say do not touch this land or you shall be cursed haunted for the rest of your lives, so hurry of with those pale white garments and lifted black veils and greet the trepidation with acceptance as no soul would dare to survive this land which oozed with horrific incidents of the dead and demos.