This comes from a life writing course I went on a couple of weeks ago. I used the reality of my house as the setting for this story. Whilst clearing out the loft, she discovers an ancient key to an old boat house and decides to explore. On her return, she finds that her house is occupied by someone else.
I pull the handle down, throwing my weight against the heavy silver-oak doorframe; but it doesn’t budge.
‘Huh?’ I whisper to myself, my eyebrows knitted in confusion. I scrabble around in my coat pocket for my house key, fingers caressing the cool metal as I slide it into the keyhole. When it doesn’t turn, I try forcing it again before I realise that something blocking the mechanism.
I sigh, maybe my sister is paying me an unexpected visit. She has been known to let herself in and lock the door behind her, helping herself to my wine collection before falling asleep, drooling, on the sofa.
I bang on the door, the sound deep and echoing. As I wait,
my fingers pick at the friable pink sand between the stones.
‘Suzie’ I call, ‘come on, let me in!’
I sense a shadow in the upper window and look up, my eyes peeled, searching for further movement. But there is none, and no-one comes to the door.
I finally huff and take a step into the flower bed, tiptoeing around the geranium flowers like fireworks around my feet, whilst unpicking rose thorns snagged on my clothes. When did this bush get so big?
I lift my hands to peer in through the kitchen window, gasp and take a step backwards in shock, only to yelp from the stab of thorns in my back. The pain heightens my senses, the sweet aroma of roses now pungent in my nostrils. I swipe forward and grab the windowsill ledge to steady myself and take a breath. A second glance and the hairs along my forearms prickle.
I don’t recognise the figure sitting at the oak table, staring back at me…
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