Behind closed doors

I

I don't want to go. I wish school term was extended taking a chunk of the autumn break with it. Anything to stay away from here.

The taxi speeds down the motorway, picking up more and more speed on every stretch of road. I sit in the centre backseat, my feet securely wedged into the back of the front seat, to stop me from toppling over at any rash turns the driver makes. My hands are already  sore and red from gripping on to the seatbelt, which I'm sure will disintegrate at any second now.

The beautiful Welsh countryside blurs past behind the frosted window. The rolling hills and  peaking mountains is far from what I'm used to from the busy London city. No traffic jams to delay and small little villages occasionally sit on the road side. Sheep and cows happily graze away despite the autumn winds, dotting the landscape. I'd happily go on vacation here without thinking twice, unless that vacation is to my great aunts place, which is exactly where I'm heading.

Suddenly the driver makes a sharp turn down onto a track. Once again I'm gripping on to dear life to the seatbelt, sliding across the leather seats.

The taxi crashes down the track, leading from smooth tarmac to a bad excuse for an oversized path. I sway back and forth trying to stabilise myself as we ride over the uneven ground. It feels like the taxi driver is attempting motor way speed, racing over large stones and small shrubs like this is some sort of monster truck. In result I'm tossed back and forth like this is some sort of tenderising machine.

My jeans stick tight to my legs with sweat from the long journey here. The air con must be blocked, but I really don't feel like bickering with the taxi driver. It's hard enough trying to avoid the lumps of chewing gum dotted over the seat and hanging from the worn ceiling. I'm glad the suspension in this thing was just improved, because I would have vomited by now. Though, at least it would drench out the stench of cigarette smoke the driver continuously puffs out.

The ground track suddenly leads into gravel, which to my relief forces the cab to slow down. The taxi swivels round a turning point nearly clipping g the edge of an old fountain, poised in the centre. The cab abruptly skids to a halt and I rest my head back against the seat, glad that the four hour trip has come to an end. Then again, I wish we never reached our destination.

Nimbly, the driver lets me out like he wants to be somewhere else. I drag myself and my suit case out on to ground with a crunch. Shaking my cramps out my legs, a chilling gust of wind greets me,

At first the sunlight blinds me,then I see it. A huge old manor stands in front of me at the end of a wide path.Thick ivy creeps up the three story build, whilst the windows are either blocked up by planks of wood or shattered. It looks just as run down and ancient as in the photos I've seen of it, which were taken over twenty years ago. Its hard to believe that once a rich family lived here, what now seems to be termite central. I feel myself gulp as I realise that it looks a lot more terrifying in reality, than in a black and white photo.

I join back into reality as the taxi roars to life behind me and hurtles back up the track, leaving me on my own.

I blink.

I stand there for a few seconds, taking in the surrounding, attempting not to acknowledge how deathly Silent it is. The scent of freshly fallen rain hangs in the air, the only think I can really relate to in London.Eventually,I hunch my shoulders, pushing my face into my woollen scarf, and begin to tread down the path. For some reason it feels like I'm on stage, millions of eyes watching my every move, making me even more nervous and self-conscious .My boots sound like thunder against the crunching gravel. It's so quiet and vast out here. I wonder if the silence around me is why my breathing is so loud, or am I hyperventilating?