This is a piece that I wrote today while at the enrichment day. 🙂
The house was a tired old lady with aching joints. The front porch sagged, the supporting wooden beams groaning in protest. Setting even a toe upon the gnarled and dusty floor would elicit a squeak of annoyance.
I swallowed. Of all the dares I’ve embarked upon in my 14 years of life, this was the most frightening. Out in our country town, Selma’s house was a household topic of gossip. Some say the old bag of bones had moved away to visit family, leaving her home to wither in the hot outback sun. Others believed her age had gotten the better of her, and she had spontaneously shriveled and disintegrated into a pile of dust.
No matter which story was true, tonight was the night that selma’s existence or absence would be found.
I looked back, searching to see if Andy or Richard were still giggling away amongst the prickly bushes. Judging by the lack of snickering and muffled laughter, I was on my own.
I looked forward at the house, confronting my latest escapade. With a deep breath, I stepped up to the door, wincing at each squeal the floorboards made. Even the door was in an obvious state of disrepair. Rust had eaten away at the hinges, leaving the iron in an angry red flaky state. Cobwebs had entrenched themselves into the corners of the door frame, each inhabited by a large black spider. Interestingly, they seemed oblivious to the terror and stories of horror attached to this house, continuing to weave their webs without fear.
From this, I took some hope. Surely, if spiders, one of the more feared creatures of this earth, we’re not afraid of Selma’s absolute wreck of a home, then what reason should I have for not going inside?
With more confidence in my posture and mind, I grasped the doorknob, and pushed…