This was a piece of writing we had to do for English, describing a setting. Hope you like it :)

The wooden boards creaked under my weight, breaking the eerie silence. To the right, was our battered old washing machine, openly showing all its 20 years to the world and covered heavily with dust. It was strange seeing it again, just sitting there, completely silent. I could still remember it rumbling, shaking. I could almost see a younger version of myself helping my mother, who had aged a lot recently, collect the fresh laundry. But now it was still, unused for years. Abandoned. Just like everything else in this house.

On my left, was the second bathroom, which was supposedly haunted. Even while we lived here, we never used it. The first one was always better, newer, cleaner, and easier to use. The door was framed thickly with cobwebs. Eyes followed you as you walked past it. Dozens of tiny spiders' eyes. And the pleading eyes of their victims.

The bathtub, slightly hidden at the very back of the room, was still slippery with moss and mould, as if we had never left it. As if it had never aged. The occasional rat and cockroach still scurried across the broken tiles. The window was broken long before we even moved in – no one had thought to have it fixed. And it was still broken now. There was no light, natural or electrical. We were all too afraid to set foot in there to change the light bulb, and no one would reach inside to flick on the switch. The thin tattered piece of cloth that was supposedly a curtain drifted violently in the howling wind.

Beyond this graveyard was a garden. My garden. It was my only retreat, my refuge. The crisp sunlight that shone from behind the fly-screen door would blind me back then. Flowers smiled at the sun and danced in the wind. Butterflies frolicked from one smiling face to another. Birds sang different tunes that merged into one song. It was perfect.

But now, it was dark. Flowers frowned, drooping from lack of moisture and care. The aviary I had, now only an iron skeleton – I had let my budgies go before we left. The wind was no longer warm and welcoming, it was bone-chilling. There was no singing, just a dull rustle of leaves. It was a nightmare come to life.

It hurt, to come back and see what had happened to my house. I never meant to leave, to abandon everything I loved about this place. But I did. So the cosy little cottage became a ghost house. And I will never forgive myself for it.

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