The desert of the forest.
And there she stood, a majestic creature, but still, worn out, old, dilapidated. She stood tall and mighty, staring out like a ghost in the pale moonlight, staring back with an intimidating glare. To add to the effect of a perfectly real horror movie, the skies had turned dark, as if to please the majesty standing firm, right beneath. The moonlight managed to filter through little pores in the dark clouds, little rays of faint silver making her silhouette light up in an ethereal manner. She was a ghost, a house so old, so ancient …and so ghostly.
The gate lay open, standing strong, with rusty ferrous bars, facing the strong stormy winds of the night. It moved slightly, creaking loudly, spouting high pitched wails like a banshee in tremendous distress. Behind it, lay a vast expanse of an unused garden, a humongous army of weeds, ready to face the war against the stormy night. The hedges were disheveled, unkempt, probably home to an array of insects and birds. Quite nearby, there lay a thicket of old banyan trees, wraithlike, eerie, its hanging roots resembling a cruel witch’s hair, spouting out wickedness, swishing in the stormy breeze. An owl, somewhere in the thicket, gave a loud quavering hoot.
A Herculean flash of light, blinding, electrifying, announced the arrival of the storm, lighting up the house momentarily. A huge bungalow, old, completely in ram shackles. The walls were peeled, blotches of blood read brick showed beneath, some, being covered by a huge infestation of thick, dark, ivy. The windows were dark and opaque, the wooden verandah radiated age and neglect. The air smelled old, and the atmosphere felt damp.
The cool freshness of the night breeze suddenly changed to a damp decomposing smell, very faint, yet in existence. Dark silhouettes welcomed guests, with quilts of dust, and a ceiling of thin glinting strands of sticky cobwebs. Shards of glass from shattered windows lay on a side, a...