She knew the house so well. Pillars framing the intricately carved doors, with shining brass inset. The entrance hall, with its ornate tiled floor, that sent echoes of her heel fall running up the stairs that swept ahead. The kitchen, always bustling, where a hand wiped over a steamy window revealed the verdant green of garden that rolled down towards the river beyond. She had rolled on that slope, breath catching in her throat in delicious terror as she spun out of control, losing all consciousness of up or down. And had lain, chin propped in her hands, watching the moonlight dancing across water, listening to the whispered stories of the trees.
She knew it so well. Yet still found herself entering its heart, the labyrinth of stairs that snaked off in all directions, the gleam of polished balustrades providing the only light. Allowed the icy fingers of fear to lace themselves around her, and pull her on towards the room. The stately grandeur fading with each step, the smell of decay permeating every surface.
She knew the room. Too well. The single bed, its filthy sheets thrown in disarray. The water that coursed down the walls, leaving a slick sheen of slime in its wake. The bare rotting floorboards that fell away to an impenetrable blackness in the far corner of the room. Terror seized her heart, its blackened claws squeezing tightly, and she felt the scream rush into her throat……………….