Here's a little challenge for you that could double as a writing exercise. Imagine this: you see a building. Okay? Now describe it. Anything goes. Describe this building concisely or floridly. Do a straight description or make a story out of it. It can be a house, a warehouse, a store, a cottage, anything. Do the description comedy-style, horror-style, describe the building with a poem or a little song. Write in the style of a well-known author*. Anything goes. *Though if you do this, be sure to tell us which author! =) Go!
It was my hut of horror, where I intertained my um guest. The walls were slime green covered in moss and if you were not invited you would never even know it was there. The inside was dark and wet, water from the rocks slowly leaked down the walls and the smell of rot and filth filled the air. A moth-eaten mattress filled one corner and an old fireplace where I let my candles was the focal point of what use to be an old negro church.
At first glance, it appeared to be nothing more than a pile of lumber discarded in the forest. As I approached, I could see it was a windowless shack, covered with moss and bracketed with gray clumps of fungus. A door on the far side of the shack creaked open reluctantly. A foul stench wafted from within, a reek that was more than decaying wood and stale air. It smelled of death, and I felt a chill down to my groin. I knew, somehow, that evil had dwelt here. Evil, ancient and still vital, despite the appearance of long disuse. The next I knew. I was scratched and bruised and exhausted from running through the brush and thickets. I collapsed onto a pile of wet, slimy leaves, shivering as I tried to gather my wits.
I never wanted to go to the building, but it drew me there. Much as I wanted to stay away, I knew I had to come here. On the outside, it's just a building. It's made of grey stone, with a small, wooden door of red mahogany. You think this building is normal? You think the building is safe? Hah! You only see what your mind wants you to see. Me... I can see the truth. This building is pure evil. I won't call it a gateway to Hell or anything like that. Hell has nothing to do with it. Against my will, I open the door with a gentle push. It's unlocked and doesn't make a sound when it slides open. At the same moment, everything is all quiet. This is in the middle of the forest, yet there is not a sound too be heard. I feel the hairs on the back of my neck standing up, and I freeze, although it is really warm. I remember the old saying; When the forest is quiet, danger is nearby. Every part of my brain screams for me to get away, but I can't resist. I take a step inside. The air inside is stale and smells like a tomb. 'No wonder', I think. If the building was creepy on the outside, it's beyond description inside. The table in the center of the room is of an impossible length, and the pale moonlight shines in through the windows even though it was daytime outside. It is only one small room in here with nothing but a table and two chairs, and yet I hear someone in the distance. I know it's impossible, but someone is walking towards me from far down a corridor that should not exist. And then she appears... (to be continued... maybe! Haha!)
Toby liked visiting the house on the hill, even though it smelled kinda funny and Uncle Mike was old. He was alive when the Beatles were together! The house was old too, and sorta small, but Uncle Mike had all kinds of cool things. Sometimes he let me try out one of his guitars. There were two hanging on the living room wall, but those weren't for playing. He said one once belonged to some guy named Paul Kantner who was in a famous rock band I never heard of. There were other things on the wall too - beads and necklaces, headbands, and photographs of smiling hairy people. There were piles of pillows all around the room, big enough to sit on. There was no TV in the living room, but there was a big stereo setup, and even a record player. He had a little tabletop TV in his bedroom, but Toby didn't even know if it worked. Uncle Mike smoked cigars sometimes, Toby knew. That was why the place smelled funny. But he didn't smoke them around Toby. He thought his mom had told Uncle Mike not to, but Toby kinda liked that smell. It smelled warm and friendly, and that was just like Uncle Mike.
The skeleton of the old tower stood vigil over the blackened field. The sole reminder of the previous weeks inferno. The second floor was nothing more than several bits of twisted wood reaching for the sky that quenched the hungry flames. The front door remained relatively unharmed, the old wood only slightly scorched, the only survivor of the tragedy. The walls, witness to so many years of life were nothing but scorched sections of rotting wood now. The windows which once had let the morning sun flow through the house were now blind holes in the sad remains of this ancient sentinal.
To Adam the house seemed normal enough, albeit in need of some TLC. A rusty gate necklaced the yard, cast iron and foreboding. The red brick walls now had vines snaking their way to the second story and a little ashen chimney sat upon the leaf encrusted roof. A tree sat alone in the courtyard, the wind it's only companion, as it stripped the last of the golden leaves from the branches. A bicycle sat near the fence, coated in rust and the weather. To Tyler and his gang the house was a challenge, a daring act to prove your worth. They huddled around Adam, filling his head with macabre tales of vengeful nannies wielding axes and children who ventured in and never returned. As Adam gazed at the sorry looking house he thought to himself, 'The things I go through to have friends.'
