The Old House....

There I was, jammed in between the boxes, driving away from my beloved home.

I loved, that house with all my heart – and I search regularly on the internet, hoping that one day I can buy it back and return to my happy ever after. Of course in my whole grown up life, I have never seen it for sale.

As a child, it was a strange place to live. A house full of spooky goings on but nothing that ever put me on edge or worried me. Nothing that was ever said aloud but felt by us all.

Built in Georgian times the house was a shadow of it’s former self and long since spilt into three dwellings.

The interior simply didn’t pan out to the spirits that roamed and I would often spring out into the hallway outside my room expecting to see someone there when there was just a faint smell of cologne or a sharp chill.

But to me that was simply part of being in that house. Some of my friends felt it too – and not in a good way. Not all of them liked to come over and play. Our house was often suddenly chilly, draughty and void of sound.

When I dream, I'm always in that house. Like it's part of me - through and through. As my life has moved forward - as I have grown into a mother myself, in my dreams my children play there - in my house, as I did as a child.