Fixing the Floorboards (Fiction)

 I live in a rather old house. Vines have crept up its blackened, decayed sides and twisted themselves into an intricate maze. Blood red roses grow on large sprawling bushes in a wild, maundering fashion. At night, the moon throws an ethereal, almost ghoulish glow over the landscape, casting parts of it into soft, muted shadow. The dead trees outside sway melancholically in the gentle breeze.

My friends called me crazy for buying this dilapidated mansion. It is far from town, and completely isolated. The neighborhood is practically deserted. The truth is, it was offered to me for almost nothing. The original owners left in quite a hurry. They seemed frightened, speaking of “strange happenings” and “mysterious voices”. People really do get into a tizzy over nothing. Frankly, I’m not the crazy one for accepting a deal as good as this. 

I’ll admit, when laid stark and bare in the cold light of day, my residence appears unseemly. The cracked, peeling paint is the only sign of its former glory. The front door opens with the most dreadful groan into a long, dim passage. The interior is adorned with spots of mold and spiderwebs draped across the walls. The floorboards on which the varnish still remain are yellowed with age, and the ones stripped bare are dappled with a myriad of brown hues. When I first moved in, the windows were coated with grime and an oppressive, musty smell pervaded. The house came with a set of dusty antique furniture, which was decidedly hideous. 

I shall have everything spruced up soon. It will look as good as new. Of course, there is a dark red stain under the sink that I cannot manage to scrub away, try as I might. And there is a strange stench in the backyard which, apparently is not a gas leak. Sometimes I do hear a desperate, piercing cry in the dead of night, but I can never find its source.

I still have not gotten around to clearing out the attic. At night I hear abnormally large, noisy rats skittering around on the roof. As I lie on my hard, unwelcoming bed, I hear the rusty iron gate being rattled by what I can only assume is the sharp, icy draught which I suddenly feel on my spine. The whole house seems to groan and rattle, its history echoing through its walls. As I fall into tranquil slumber, I dream of how I planned to fix the floorboards.

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This is something I wrote a while back on a whim.