Her breath was ragged as she approached the door to what I had been informed was her house. It certainly didn't look like a house. It looked far too sad and ruined for that. She pushed at the wood of the door, once a scarlet red, now a rust colour, and the door swung open with a creak that sent shivers down my spine. She sensed my apprehension, clearly, for she approached me, slowly, and placed a hand on my arm.
Her hands were cool, and slight, with mud smeared beneath the nails and over the wristbone. Together, we walked into the house. Once inside, she appeared to relax a little, for she nearly danced down the corridor. The air inside was a little stale, and the house appeared to sigh as I walked a few steps down the corridor. The furniture was thick with dust, and ancient ancestors surveyed me through flat, dark eyes. A floorboard creaked, and I gave a little yell of fear. I felt as if the whole house was holding its breath, waiting for something.
Willow turned, and beckoned me to where she stood. I followed her, and gasped when I saw what she was showing me. The room we were now in could never be described as dirty. The sun streamed in, hitting the glass chandelier and sending rainbows skittering down the creamy walls. A small painting of a bowl of sunflowers adorned the east wall, and a four poster bed ,with a spring green duvet, was tucked under the bay window. " Do you like it?" she said, her voice hopeful. " I do, " I replied, trying to place this in a house so dilapated and sad.