*

After holidaying three years running at White-Lake, Mother decided it offered more congenial surroundings than sooty Colton in which to bring up a family so she put it to Father that we really ought to move there for good.

We took the place of one of the street’s oldest residents who had just died.

When I first entered Number Eight Tees-Grove Road the house smelled of must, felt grubby and was still full of death.

“We’re all going to die, “I announced,” we’re moving into a house of death.”

“Shut up,” said Mother.

“It’s true, I can feel it.”

“Don’t be silly. It just needs a good clean out that’s all. Old people don’t notice dirt the same.”

“That old woman, she died in this house, she died in the kitchen, right here. We’re all going to die…” I yelled in the kitchen and ran into the back room.

“We’re all going to die,” I yelled into the back room and ran into the front room.

“We’re all going to die,” I yelled into the front room and ran upstairs yelling…

Continue reading at somethingferal.com