The Old House, by James Charlton

(F.F.F. Website Story)

The house stood on the high point of the headland, not too close to the edge but close enough. Wind howled around the lonely widow’s walk and rattled the windows. It whipped up the leaves into funnels of broken light as the moon shone down between the scudding clouds.

The trees bent over as if in subservience to the hammering wind. Somewhere along the side of the house a shutter slammed against the windowsill with a loud crack. Inside, a door creaked and moaned as the pressure from outside moved the still-fetid air inside. Not bad for a movie.

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