The oldest residents of that abandoned house were the spiders. Many generations had laced the walls with cobwebs of intricate beauty, though now even they lay in dusty rags. It had been three decades since a footstep had echoed within those walls, since the dust had been disturbed and the ghosts awoken. The only furniture was an antique pedestal table carved of local oak and upon it a bottle of finest malt whiskey and one up-turned glass.
In the old abandoned house sections of ceiling hang limp in the stagnant air. Fragments of plaster lie damp over a long untrodden floor, their only purpose to soak in the seasonal rain. Cold water seeps through window frames, rotten and blistered, to nurse the mildew and rise up wallpapers that peel. The cupboards are a time-warp of long forgotten brands that barely live on even in the memories of the elderly. All around are the artifacts of a life lived and hastily abandoned, mattresses, dolls, sepia photographs...
The rotting wooden door creaked slowly open and echoing footsteps invaded the silence that hung like a cloak around the house. A thick carpet of dust clung to every object, the rays of light shining through the shattered glass windows catching on the particles suspended in the stagnant air. He moved deliberately, dust billowing into clouds as he passed. He continued to move through the house, kicking up more dust until it was difficult to see through the billions of particles that now swirled in the air. Then he came to a door, faded green, paint curling with age, brass handle almost consumed by a thick network of cobwebs, reaching out, he turned it.