He's Not There

Night was drawing upon and the lights in the sky shone dimly. I walked up to the front door, looking down at the piece of paper I held dearly in my hand. This was definitely the house, 6 Omen Street. I looked around thinking to myself ‘how could someone live like this’ there was trash stock piled mixed in the dead weeds, it looked like a garbage site. I knocked on the door, finding that the door opened as I did. I stepped inside and stepped on a load of newspapers and letters, addressing the boy I was meant to pick up.  All the lights were off. The furniture had disappeared from the spaces they had been placed for what looked like years. The door slammed shut behind me and the wind began to howl through the cracks. Everything seemed silent before, but now everything was roaring at me. I began to walk through the large empty hall, the rotten wooden floors squeaked beneath me like an off tune violin. I was sure that someone whispered in my ear, telling me to ‘leave’.  I looked for a light switch on the slimy painted walls, a click of the switch provided only but a flicker of light that gleamed off a crimson wall. The metallic scent violated my nose, my heart felt pulverised.