The House

This is a paragraph from a story I intend to write. I may break it up into smaller paragraphs, i'm not sure yet.

The house had been there so long, it had almost become a part of the cliff it was perched on. If you looked closely you could hardly see where brick and plaster finished, and chalk began. The cliff had been eroded away gradually over the years, and the overhanging conservatory and library were supported by long spider like beams of wood, that spiralled down onto the surf soaked rocks below. No one had lived in the house for years. The previous occupants had left quite suddenly without telling anyone where they were going. No one knew why they had left, or indeed where they had gone. There had been rumours of course, phrases drifting from half closed lips, snatches of conversation picked up by inquisitive ears as they hurried past. A tragedy people said. The daughter, only 15. Suicide some said, others favoured murder. But like the cold winter months, the rumours soon petered out. People tried to ignore it, leaving it to rot on the hillside. They told their children not to go near it. It was a hazard they said, the cliff could collapse at any time, although they all knew this was not their reason for banning it.

Children dared each other to run up the path and touch the wall that surrounded the building, filled with the thrill of doing something forbidden. Some even had the courage to creep through the huge iron gate, past the grossly deformed gargoyles and peek through the grubby windows. Everything lay exactly where it had been left all those years ago, only now transformed by thick layers of dust. The glass was filthy, covered in stringy cobwebs and dried eggs that excited children threw at Halloween when no one came to answer their nervous shouts of “trick or treat”.

Those trees that had survived the murderous waves smashing against the cliff, were sickly spindly specimens, battered and bruised by the pounding wind and spray. Anything that hopefully emerged in spring, found the soil too dry and alkali to support their searching roots. This gave it a desolate miserable feel, almost as if everything that gave the house life had melted away into the wind parched soil.

The whole house reeked of a strange musty smell unlike anything anyone had ever smelled before, and on hot days it seeped beyond the red brick walls, carried by an unfelt breeze. The smell transmitted uneasiness, and made passers-by hurry about their business wondering why they suddenly felt a profound sadness. The whole house had the feeling of a thunderstorm about to break, but it never did, and so the smell, and the uneasiness and melancholy that came with it, remained.