The Old House

A piercing scream of light exploded through the windows falling on my face, blinding me by its brightness. Feeling disgruntled, I moaned for more sleep, but the devilish light of the sun had already decided that it's time to wake me up.

Today, I was going to explore an antiquated, abandoned house. Excited to explore something new and divergent, I swiftly got out of bed and made my way towards the bathroom. After getting ready and having breakfast I put myself in the driver's seat and start the 4-hour drive. Abergele is a beautiful town situated on the north coast of Wales. As promised, I meet my sister and her friends at a bright, shiny, red post. We drive further in order to find the old house and stop in front of a huge, exorbitant mansion. "Is this the house that we are going to explore?" asked my sister. Saying this is a house is an understatement. I was mesmerized, my eyes never leaving whatever there was in front of me.

The iron gate had been forged a century ago. It was a clear fifteen feet tall and made of twisted black rods. At the end some were curled in convoluted patterns and opportunist spiders had created webs there. The latch lifted with ease and it swung open almost without sound. Whatever this place was it was it was occupied and maintained.

The door swung open, not slowly like River did when he returned, but fast and with enough force to drive the door into the plaster opposite. Time had performed irreversible deeds upon the once proud and mighty mansion of Abergele. Bricks and cement had been eroded away, washing the colours from the once beautiful building. But from within, the magic lived on. Great halls of chandelier and tables lay stagnant, dusty, yet held the weight of many parties, songs, dances. The floors lay expectant, as if wishing for one last pair of boots to walk by.

Dust lay over every surface like dirty snow, pristine dust layer, not a foot print anywhere, dust bunnies the size of bowling ball tumbled across the floor boards toward unseen skittles, bright sunlight cascaded all the way to the foot of the rough, wooden stairs, smell of mildew, stale air, air thick with dust, shafts of light bursting through gaps in the boarded up window, absolute silence, not even the hum of a refrigerator, the house only occupants weave their webs between the spindles of the stair banisters and from the ceiling to the wall, old cobwebs billowed in the draft.

The bathroom was top-of-the line bespoke fixtures. We tried to turn on the faucet and after several tries the faucet finally gave way and the old copper pipes started to sing - a chorus from the crumbling brick and plaster. The water doesn't flow, but sputters, spitting it out in chaotic bursts. My hand reaches forward only to retract it even faster. It isn't simply cold water, it's orange and dirt flecked. Somewhere down the lines is an iron pipe. Not wasting more time, we continue to look out for the room which we have been waiting to see.

I walked into the room that looks like a ballroom and caught my breath. I'd never been in a space that made me feel so small-or so plain. Crystal chandeliers spiraled down from the ceiling. The gold highlights on the ceiling glittered loudly. Long, wooden floor seemed fairly smooth even after so many years.

Making our way to the kitchen, it was huge, cluttered and grubby. The cupboards were faded green with white flowers and handles. The counters were a dark green, black and white marble with a coat of thick grey dust hugging it. The tiles on the floor were green and dirty. The green and brown moss pushing the tiles apart. Insects and plants had claimed the kitchen as their own. The plants were even forcing their way through the holes in the wall and there was a small bird nest in one of the drawers. I went into the hallway. This was overwhelmingly impressive.

The extravagant window across the hallway caught my attention. The window is a hundred years older than the one in my house yet perfect in every way. The glass, though clear, is as thick as a beer bottle. Each rectangle, no bigger than a dollar-store notebook, is held in place firmly. Like the stone walls it was built to last. Though it must have been so much harder to make, the top is a gentle arch rather than flat. I want to lift it from its little hole ans take it home with me but I'd never get it out, and even if I did it would weigh a tonne.

It's getting dark, we don't have much time. Quickly placing all my cameras in my old denim, deeply unfashionable backpack, I made my way out. The wind was roaring in the great bare trees of the centre, as if it were some wild dark grove deep in a forgotten land.

"Drowsy" that's what I felt when I reached home. Collapsing on my small, white bed I drifted into unconsciousness. And then black out. The world was a blur, and random images seemed to float aimlessly around in the pool of my thoughts, as though they were being blown viciously by a hurricane.

-DC


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