wheel, pulled off her gloves and threw them on the passenger seat. Grabbing her bag and opening the door, she swung her legs around and jumped out of the van, groaning as her feet landed in a muddy puddle. Opening the side door of her van, Matilda took out her suitcase and holdall, the rest of her belongings could wait until later. She slammed the door shut, turned about and took a pensive step towards the front door.
The wind was picking up, and inhaling the mixed scent of damp autumn leaves and fresh rain wafting in the breeze she gave a shiver and took the large, antique key from her bag.
Climbing the final six stone steps leading to the porch Matilda glanced to her right as she reached the top, her eyes settling on the stone bench in the alcove of the porch. Her eyes dropped below it and her heartbeat trebled as a wave of cold heat rushed through her. Still there, lying discarded and entangled with brambles and weeds where nature had possessed them for herself, were her brother’s red wellington boots. Her hand lifted to her mouth as her eyes wandered to the apex above her, to the broken, tattered pumpkin lights that once decorated the porch. Her eyes moved left, to the remains of a mannequin grim reaper, banging back and forth in the wind.
“Shit in hell,” she muttered, as her eyes returned to the weathered and worn oak door in front of her. Putting the key in the lock with a shaking hand, she turned it. The door clicked, and pushing it open, it squealed with rusted age.
Steadying her breath, and trying to keep the nausea rippling in her stomach under control, she stepped inside. Her nose twitched at the stale, musty smell of smoke still permeating the air. Closing the door behind her, and slipping the key in her bag, she turned around. Tears immediately welled in her eyes, and for a long moment, all she felt was sorrow.
Matilda looked through the dimness, at the dirt and grime covering the parquet flooring and at the peeling remnants of blue, floral wallpaper that lined the walls. An old oak hall table, with a dusty lamp and tattered shade sat against the wall. She glanced to the dead, shrivelled plants sitting in terracotta pots on the window ledge. And then her gaze shifted to the magnificent staircase rising ominously to her left, which swept to the right as it climbed into the darkness.
Matilda looked back to the hallway ahead of her.
“Mummy,” she muttered, as transported back in time she saw her mother chasing after her brother, laughing and giggling as they ran down the hall. She ventured towards them, but reaching her father’s study Matilda stopped, turned her head, and saw him sitting at his desk. He glanced up at her.
“Hello, silly Tilly,” he said, with a grin. “What are you up too?”
“Daddy,” she mumbled, leaning on the doorframe for support.
“Matilda, tell daddy dinner’s ready,” her mother yelled, swooping her brother into her arms. “Come on mucky pup, time to wash up for dinner,” she said. Matilda glanced back down the corridor, just as they disappeared in a cloud of mist. She looked back to her father, but he was gone, his desk now covered in cobwebs and his papers scattered everywhere. She gave a sob and wiped her tears, as this was even harder than she feared.
Walking down the hallway, her footsteps echoed back at her. Stopping at a door, she pushed it open and stepped into the kitchen. Switching on the light it flickered for a moment, before it came on. She glanced around at the mess and gave a sigh as it was filthy, but it was at least habitable.
She dropped her suitcase on the terracotta tiles, and placed her bag and holdall on the pine kitchen table in the middle of the huge kitchen. Wandering to the green Aga she ran her fingers through the dust, and lifting up the four hot plates one by one, she checked on their condition. They all seemed okay. One of her main tasks tomorrow was to clean it and try to
The wind was picking up, and inhaling the mixed scent of damp autumn leaves and fresh rain wafting in the breeze she gave a shiver and took the large, antique key from her bag.
Climbing the final six stone steps leading to the porch Matilda glanced to her right as she reached the top, her eyes settling on the stone bench in the alcove of the porch. Her eyes dropped below it and her heartbeat trebled as a wave of cold heat rushed through her. Still there, lying discarded and entangled with brambles and weeds where nature had possessed them for herself, were her brother’s red wellington boots. Her hand lifted to her mouth as her eyes wandered to the apex above her, to the broken, tattered pumpkin lights that once decorated the porch. Her eyes moved left, to the remains of a mannequin grim reaper, banging back and forth in the wind.
“Shit in hell,” she muttered, as her eyes returned to the weathered and worn oak door in front of her. Putting the key in the lock with a shaking hand, she turned it. The door clicked, and pushing it open, it squealed with rusted age.
Steadying her breath, and trying to keep the nausea rippling in her stomach under control, she stepped inside. Her nose twitched at the stale, musty smell of smoke still permeating the air. Closing the door behind her, and slipping the key in her bag, she turned around. Tears immediately welled in her eyes, and for a long moment, all she felt was sorrow.
Matilda looked through the dimness, at the dirt and grime covering the parquet flooring and at the peeling remnants of blue, floral wallpaper that lined the walls. An old oak hall table, with a dusty lamp and tattered shade sat against the wall. She glanced to the dead, shrivelled plants sitting in terracotta pots on the window ledge. And then her gaze shifted to the magnificent staircase rising ominously to her left, which swept to the right as it climbed into the darkness.
Matilda looked back to the hallway ahead of her.
“Mummy,” she muttered, as transported back in time she saw her mother chasing after her brother, laughing and giggling as they ran down the hall. She ventured towards them, but reaching her father’s study Matilda stopped, turned her head, and saw him sitting at his desk. He glanced up at her.
“Hello, silly Tilly,” he said, with a grin. “What are you up too?”
“Daddy,” she mumbled, leaning on the doorframe for support.
“Matilda, tell daddy dinner’s ready,” her mother yelled, swooping her brother into her arms. “Come on mucky pup, time to wash up for dinner,” she said. Matilda glanced back down the corridor, just as they disappeared in a cloud of mist. She looked back to her father, but he was gone, his desk now covered in cobwebs and his papers scattered everywhere. She gave a sob and wiped her tears, as this was even harder than she feared.
Walking down the hallway, her footsteps echoed back at her. Stopping at a door, she pushed it open and stepped into the kitchen. Switching on the light it flickered for a moment, before it came on. She glanced around at the mess and gave a sigh as it was filthy, but it was at least habitable.
She dropped her suitcase on the terracotta tiles, and placed her bag and holdall on the pine kitchen table in the middle of the huge kitchen. Wandering to the green Aga she ran her fingers through the dust, and lifting up the four hot plates one by one, she checked on their condition. They all seemed okay. One of her main tasks tomorrow was to clean it and try to
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