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This is a short one shot that I wrote in an English lesson when I was bored and had finished all my work, hope you enjoy it.
The house seemed forgotten amongst the pristine, well kept houses which surrounded it. The owner was a mysterious man, who seemed to wear only black. The house itself was overgrown with dark green ivy, and the garden was a tumble of weeds.
A rusting, silver knocker protruded out of the decrepit wooden door. The inside was not much better, an eerie silence thronged through every room, and bottles of Firewhiskey lay strewn on the moth eaten black sofa.
The owner once must have had a great mind, for the walls were lined with old tattered books and piles of papers were stacked on the grand desk. They now lay abandoned like the house itself.
The wind whistled through the shattered glass window and the papers fluttered in the breeze.
The rest of the rooms were just the same, deserted and silent.
The bedroom was the only room that portrayed the man that used to live here. Black and white moving photos were in leather boxes. A young man walked happily hand in hand with a woman, they turned to face the camera and smiled. The photo was smudged as though from the tears of a grieving man. Small phials of strange liquids lined the shelves and an ornate fireplace that would once have shown comfort now lay empty and forgotten. The large four poster bed with black silk bedding was encased in a thick layer of dust, as was the dark wooden wardrobe. Inside was just one outfit, a black cloak. The owner of the house was long gone, lost forever.