Wildflowers stretched across the front of the house; it was a mustardy-lemon sea that had obscured the long since trodden path. The lawn, untamed, grew in patches with knee-length tufts like a balding man, a mix of umber, olive and sage, across the rugged earth that seemed to span perceptibly endlessly in front of the house. The house itself could be considered nestled amongst the eucalyptus trees, yet in reality it was the trees that consumed the house where only the distained ashen front door could barely be seen. In this part of the world, the seafaring settlements on the coast rarely ventured inland, but not the sea mist. From far out at sea, the thunderous clouds swelled and rolled bruised across the mountain tops where they inevitably lingered over the house in a charcoal pall of repose. The air, clammy and dank, hung heavy and shifted from a stifling suffocation in the day to a claggy cold in the evening. Somehow, the grape vines to the right of the house managed to prevail and their ancient tendrils pretzeled their way on rows of wooden crosses – crucified and forsaken, yet the fleshy grapes hung in abundance.
Despite silently shedding its bark, the susurration of the eucalyptus leaves was incessant and unnerving like the murmur of ghosts wheezing, gasping and rasping as they undulated with the wind. This was a pernicious place.
With an audacity that belied my years, I approached the house. Weaving my way through the tufts of grasses and ignoring the whispering eucalyptus ghosts, I stopped in the middle of the wildflowers. Consoled by their delicate beauty, I knelt to pick a small yellow flower. Its fragrance, initially sweet left a bitter stench. I dropped the flower and trudged on to the front door.
The large door lacked a knocker and there was no bell, but neither were necessary. The door was mine now. The house was mine. now The land was mine now. Thunder smacked overhead and rolled though the valley tearing the sky apart. Feeling as if the earth itself would split open, I dug deep in my jean pocket for the key. A single skeleton key opened the door, and I gripped it tightly as I inserted it into the keyhole. I jiggled the key and heaved the locking mechanism to the left – it gave way and clicked open. The door fell ajar, and I pushed it further to reveal the dark interior of the entrance way. Another clap of thunder trampled the sky and rebounded heavily off the trees and distant mountains. I crossed the threshold, grabbed the key and slammed the door shut.
I clicked the torch on my phone. The light was harsh and illuminated a jaded entrance where thick dust hid a former grandeur. As I slowly stepped further in, I disturbed the layers of grime on the marble floor; the ashen particles swirled upwards around my white trainers and covered them in a leaden grey as I crossed the entrance way. Apart from the dust, the space was empty. On the wall to my right were faded squares and ovals, ghost shadows of the past. To my left, a grand wooden staircase now chipped and worn by a myriad of feet going up and down over the years. Passing the staircase to what I presumed would be the kitchen, thunder reverberated throughout the house, rattling the windows and making the walls shiver.
“Who’s there?” a voice howled.
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The Gold Shoe Writer 