The house on the hill

by Liz

The moon shone through the cracked ancient window. Thick layers of dust obscured any view and gave the moon an ancient hue as its beams fell onto the bare wooden floorboards. No one had been in the attic room for 40 or so years. Not since the family fell on hard times and could no longer support the hired help. The thin veils draped around the edge of the window swayed gently in the breeze that was squeezing itself in through the crack. Covering the rickety iron bed frame in the corner of the room was a large, one white sheet. It cloaked the soft mattress beneath, hiding the indentations of past guests.

Flowing up through the darkened stairwell, soft beams of light cast shadows on the walls to reveal several enormous gild framed pictures of men with over indulged bellies and walrus moustaches. Their chubby face poked out of the tops of uniforms adorned with medals and finery. Alongside them, delicate wives dressed in luxurious furs and dripping with gems. The frames clung to the walls – the inhabitant’s eyes looking down on the ghosts of the house.

Further down, the stairwell opened into a huge entrance hall complete with marble floor above which hung a once impressive chandelier whose beauty was now obscured years of neglect. The source of the light was the great dining hall, to the left of the entrance hall. A rack of coats hung just outside the room – all jumbled as they had been flung on to the hooks in haste. No longer could the house support a butler to welcome guests as they arrived. Visitors had to now fend for themselves. Muddy footprints covered the marble floor and scattered this way and that. There had obviously been a flurry of activity on that wet night.

Moving further across the hall, the sound of a record turning over and over as it had reached its end on the gramophone could be heard. As the needle jumped, the last bursts of the song yelled forth every now and then.

In the middle of the room, a huge dining table was groaning under the weight of platters of rich, exotic food. A suckling pig, complete with apple. Mounds of grapes nestling alongside huge wedges of blue veined cheeses. Cut crystal glasses full to the brim with the most ruby looking wine. All of this was fresh and overflowing and ready to be devoured by the muddy footed guests. Those elite who carried the right genes and who moved in circles with kings and queens. But where were those guests? Why was the gramophone still looping to a silent room?

On the far side of the room, a thinly paned French door was ajar…inviting visitors to the blackened night beyond. Given the light of the room, it was not possible to see what was out there but the open door allowed sound to seep into the room…a terrifying sound.

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