As I stepped through the wooden front door, I was surprised to see such a warm and cosy interior. To my left, there was a fire burning, Logs crackling on the open fire. There was some soft seating and a small dining table with four high back chairs. There was an oil lamp on the table.Straight in front of me was a small stove with a black kettle beside it. There was a delicious smell of something tasty coming from the cooking pot. I saw an airing rack hanging from the ceiling. The floor was wooden with a red rug in front of the fireplace. To my right there was a small hallway that led to two bedrooms. The bedrooms were off white, and had colourful handmade patchwork quilts on top of the beds. The rooms were small but cosy. It is peaceful and quiet in the fisherman's cottage but I could hear the crashing waves from the sea.
As I opened the door I found the strangest illusion ever. The house. Instead of a 1 room tiny home it was a palace filled with gold and diamonds and rubies. Each bedroom was the size of a normal house. It was all connected by one humongous hall. It was impossible to get around. Then the living room. Glorious. Chairs as comfy as a sheep's wool. Then the crown jewel of the room. The bookshelf. it covered an entire wall and was 10x the size of a library . I still had one question though. Why from the outside did it look like a boring shack?
The house was...different. It didn’t feel spooky or anything, it was just odd. It felt familiar. Not creepily familiar like in books, but nicely familiar, like home. As I opened the front door, I saw an old, dusty room filled with long forgotten antiques. A grandfather clock stood silently in the back corner, eyeing us curiously. There were tall, spruce doors to the left and right and in the centre of the room lay a beautiful carpet. It was all dim colours: dark red, mustard yellow and black, yet it seemed to make the entire room sing.
I made my way through the door to the left and realized how different each room in the house was to another. This was a small room and it wore a cloak of gold and silver. Everywhere I looked, I could see my face through an incredibly valuable mirror. On the back wall, there was a king sized, yellow bed. Accompanying it was a bedside table of the same dark wood as the walls of the first room. Upon the table, was a lamp with an intricately patterned red shade surrounding it. There was a golden alarm clock and a silver pocket watch with the initials RWJ on the back. I stuffed the watch in my pocket and went to see where the right door led to…
A cupboard, brilliant.
However old, run-down and peculiar the exterior of the house was, the inside was worse. The door led straight into the narrow hallway, which had mould growing from every available surface, save the paintings, which had dark green moss almost covering them. In the living room a fireplace that looked like it hadn’t been burning for a hundred years sat in the corner, and beside it squatted a rotting wooden bucket that once held firewood. Apart from that and an old rocking chair the living room was empty. The mould couldn’t seem to penetrate the living room, but the kitchen had been overrun with the stuff. It crawled up the walls and invaded the larder, which was a nest for mould, moss and disease. The stench was incredible. The last room was the bedroom, which the mould and moss also seemed to avoid. The plaster was peeling off the walls and the beds were but a mangled mess of springs and cotton on the floor.
A few rays of sunlight shone through the battered window and onto the dusty floor. It revealed an array of strange ornaments, broken fishing gear and other clutter. In one corner of the boat-shaped house stood a stove that emmeted an appalling smokey stench. I gagged as soon as the smell reached my unfortunate nose. Across the room of a house was a small, dirty sofa. On it layed dozens of books, covering a variety of subjects all linked to the sea. Fishing, marine life, boats and many others. The whole room looked like no one had lived for decades. It was only because of the burning stove that endlessly bellowed out smoke that I knew this place was inhabited.
I pushed the door open. It creaked as it’s unoiled hinge grinded against its counterpart. Strewn across the floor of the vessel were numerous necrose and festering fish, flies picking at their corpses. The aeolian music of the wind blew through the door, blowing with it a cluster of sand. I stepped forward, and the chink of breaking glass greeted my ears. I stared solemnly down, and saw the remains of a quaint drinking vessel, broken like a thousand promises broken like the very earth it was lying upon. It was a pitiful sight to behold. On gazing at the mantelpiece, I saw several damp and musty books, spores sprouting from it’s pages, harried from many years of existence. There was a sombre feel to the room. Drips of rain fell through the thatched roof, and sunlight dappled through the fractured oak panels of the wall.