The old Victorian house stood like a ghostly sentinel, its once-grand facade now weathered and worn. The paint had long since peeled away, revealing the grey bones of the wooden frame beneath. The windows, once bright and welcoming, now stared out like empty eyes, their panes cracked and broken.

The front door, adorned with a rusty iron knocker in the shape of a lion's head, hung crookedly on its hinges, as if it had been forced open by some unseen hand. The threshold was overgrown with weeds, and the creaking of the old wooden floorboards seemed to echo through the stillness.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of decay and neglect. Cobwebs clung to the chandeliers, and the walls were covered in a faded floral pattern, like the ghost of a long-forgotten garden. The rooms were empty, save for a few scattered remnants of a life once lived: a broken chair, a torn curtain, a yellowed photograph on the wall.

In the kitchen, the old stove stood cold and silent, its burners rusted and still. A sink full of dirty dishes seemed to wait patiently for a hand to wash them, and a small table in the corner was set for a meal that would never be eaten.

Upstairs, the bedrooms were dark and foreboding, their closets empty and bare. A single bed, its mattress sagging and worn, seemed to slumber in the silence, its blankets tangled and twisted like a restless dream.

Outside, the garden was overgrown and wild, the flowers and shrubs long since gone to seed. A broken swing hung from a branch of the old oak tree, its chains creaking in the wind like a mournful sigh.

The house stood as a testament to the passing of time, a reminder that even the most beautiful and beloved things can be forgotten and left to decay. Yet, in its abandonment, there was a strange and haunting beauty, a sense of secrets kept and stories untold.
© SavageKing1