Night has fallen. Darkness shrouds the town and the small house in a wide cul-de-sac, cradled by the forest. Usually, in Falridge -a town which is relatively unaffected by industry and so retaining a fair amount of forest -the night is full of sounds related to darkness: the soft hoot of an owl, the swift sound of its wings cutting through the air as it dives towards its prey; the rustle of a rabbit or fox darting through the undergrowth; the flap of a bats' wings and the low hum of insects. But tonight is quiet, the only sounds being that of the crickets who have gone to ground, which, needless to say, creates a rather awkward atmosphere.
The house at the end of the cul-de-sac is small, a narrower, taller version of Sady's home, and only a few minutes away. The small porch is equipped with a modest stool, made by Jeremy Kyle forty three years ago; it is the same as it was when he made it, as it has seen seldom use, though the wood has greyed, and it gleams like silver in the moonlight that fights its way through the omnipresent bank of clouds overhead. By the door is a bowl that used to belong to a Golden Retriever named, in a rather original fashion, Goldie. The bowl, unlike the chair, is obviously in use. Or, at least, it was in use, up until a little over two weeks ago; rust lines the edges where the metal has been shaped, and a few small pieces of dog food remain, though most have been eaten by the wild animals and birds that dare to get close enough. The streak of blood on the steps shows that their bravery was to their detriment.
The house features, beside the bowl, a door that was recently painted by the occupant's son in law, when he visited last month, and it shines with a mossy-green gleam between two white-washed walls with window frames of the same colour. There is a ragged hole on the side of the door, barely noticeable with the cleanness of the cut. Despite the coat of paint, the house looks rather dejected in its cul-de-sac, as if it has been thrown into a corner of the world that no one wants to see, much like the owner. It took his daughter three months of pestering to get her husband to visit and paint the house, and after that, the emotional and physical abuse at the hands of the old man living there was not worth the strain and effort. The man's son in law returned home, paint-splattered and weary, and sporting a lovely, colourful bruise on his left arm, as well as a gash on his shoulder, where the vase broke when it was thrown at him. He tiredly told his wife that he was never going back, and she had to silently agree, her eyes wide with shock.
The house, inside, is quite run down. It has three floors, the first with a kitchen, closet, and lounge, the second with two bedrooms and a bathroom, and the third being an attic room, like Sady's bedroom. The lounge is empty and quiet, the walls covered in a pale, flaking wallpaper that once had a pattern of fleur delis, but is now indistinguishable; this carries through the whole house. The floor is covered by a ratty, Persian-looking carpet, which is quite horrible, but its effect is reduced by its tattiness which obliterates most of its pattern, dark, greying floorboards showing in places that are particularly threadbare. The couch is as threadbare as the carpet, springs poking through, and the television set is nonexistent, as is the phone; the house's occupant desired as quiet a life as he could get, hence his reason for moving to Falridge. The lack of a phone and television only furthered his sense of isolation, which he thoroughly enjoyed.
On the couch, there is a dark stain that could be mistaken to be wine, except for the fact that it is crusted and flaking, complete with a striking metallic scent; it soaks through the cushion, into the stuffing that is pouring out, and it is possible to see how far the blood has soaked. The closer it gets to the bottom of the cushion, the more intense the red colour is.
On the wall, next to an ancient light switch, is another stain, more of a smear; blackening blood flakes from the wall. On the floor beneath the stain are the remnants of the vase that the man threw at his son in law, pieces of glass sparking in the light shining dully through the partially open curtain, lacy and torn.
YOU ARE READING
After Dark
Teen Fiction"Falridge was originally called Fall's Ridge, named after a strange phenomenon where many of the town's occupants threw themselves over the edge of the cliff that borders our forest, falling to their deaths on the sharp ridges of rock below..." Sinc...
