A soft autumn breeze blew the auburn leaves on the old oak tree in the garden, which rustled noiselessly before detaching themselves lazily from their branches and coming to rest in the overgrown grass below.
A girl, Clara her name was, watched chubby faced with a red lollipop in one hand and her face squished against the wrought iron fence. Her bright blue eyes were two wide saucers gazing transfixed at the cottage which stood in the centre of the garden.
She had passed this house every day as she went to and from school and it had always intrigued her, and although its garden was unkempt and the cottage old and ominous looking there was something about it which always interested her. Its unearthly beauty.
The front door was blood red and was set back in a little porch. The door contrasted with the black walls which surrounded it making it seem as though you were walking into the mouth of a beast. The cottage itself has a hushed air that even the birds don’t dare disturb; its white washed stone wall peppered by the shrunk sight of black-rimmed windows and the blood red door.
To all the children who lived in Clara’s little town, the old cottage with the iron gates surrounding it was ‘spooky’. “There’s a witch in there!” Naughty Tommy Robson calls as he runs past her on his way to school, wearing his holey shoes and his scabby legs on show. Clara doesn’t see that though. The cry of school children in their red and white uniform identical to hers become muted as though she has turned them off and all Clara can hear is the silent whisper of the house – begging for her to come inside.