An air of menace encapsulated the corridor. My nerves were stretched, about to snap, like functional elastic bands. My palms were clammy, and my senses alert. I could taste the despair on the tip of my tongue. I squeezed my eyes tightly shut, and felt a sneeze arise. I tried to conceal it as best as possible, praying, and hoping that I hadn't disturbed anything that could be lurking in this house. I heard the faint sounds of a scream, and feared for my survival. As I attempted to navigate myself through the house, I found myself nearing the end of this threatening corridor, and approaching a crimson red door. I contemplated turning back, and finding salvation. But the pull of the door was just too much. What was behind it? I felt my hand touch the cold, metal handle, and turn slowly. I couldn't control myself; my anxiety seemed to have gotten the better of me. I frightfully began to open the door, when a mild tornado of dust seemed to arise - and suddenly, a distinct scream. Without second thought, I jerked the rest of the door open and sought safety inside - slamming the already closing door behind me with a terror inducing thud. I leaned up against the door, breathing heavily. My heart was racing. It took some time for my eyes to become accustomed with the severe lack of light in this room, but gradually, objects and furniture came into focus. Just as I became familiar with the eerie silence which accompanied this house, a startling cry of thunder seemed to seek the entire house, though now, I didn't seem as scared. Maybe this house wasn't so bad after all, and my feelings were just exaggerating themselves?
The bookcase seemed to monitor the room from the secluded corner. I walked over to examine it's domineering figure, and removed a book from it's extensive archive. A gust of wind came rushing through the window - my black coat billowing behind my like the wings of a dark angel. I sat down, in a heavily comfortable armchair, and noticed a solitary piece of cream coloured paper. A fountain pen rested above it - lid off - the puse ink looked to have leaked over the table, giving it a mysterious purple colour. In a house devoid of life, this room seemed the only exception. The colours, the atmosphere, the excitement was like no other. The perfect abode to begin writing a novel - a notion which seemed to have stemmed from the previous owner. His half written novel lay about the floor, the pages scattered across the lush green carpets, never to be read by anyone. As I thought, this, I felt a sombre wave flow through my body. The air seemed to displace itself with every breath I took, the menacing atmosphere was slowing returning, and only then I realised, I'd spent far too long in this house - it's time to go.
I retraced my steps through the menacing corridor - its volume seemed to have shrunk considerably since my first arrival. I felt the fright rapidly return to every available part of my body. An intense shiver shook my spine. I focused my senses on the sprawling landscape which stood before me. It frightened me, the way that, hidden, encased in the perfect grids of suburban housing, past the sunlight, past the surgical orderliness of the cityscape, a house existed which could generate such fear and discomposure in the hearts of men - suddenly, a crashing noise interrupted my thoughts. I ran - as fast as I could. I wanted to get out. I wanted to see my friends again. I can't do it on my own. I need them. I don't want to be the lonely one, sitting in solitude. Just, let me get out, I screamed inside my head. I let my coat go; it was only slowing me down. I recognized this place - I was near the entrance - The very entrance which led me into this nightmare, the very entrance that will lead me out again. I finally reached the ominous door, and struck it open in a desperate fashion.
As I came out it hit me - it was the dead of night. The torrential downpour had failed to cease - the thunder still touched my heart with a heavy pierce. My run steadily accelerated into a sprint. I sprinted through the unearthly streets; I sprinted past the homes, past the parks, through the night; I sprinted past the shops, past the people, and through the cascading rain. I sang the song my mother used to sing to me - in hopes of finding some comfort whilst in the daunting night. The chorus of ''twinkle, twinkle, little star'' played on repeat in my head - it made my journey home seem half the time. I crashed through my front door, almost in tears, frightened half to death by my ordeal. The other half of me which had survived was gripped by fatigue. I felt like a puppet, with a drunken puppeteer - I collapsed on the floor of my bedroom. I was home. I was safe.