Creative Writing Essay

“Woof, woof.” Said Fletcher, thumping his strong tail against the wooden door. I turned around slowly in bed, with my eyes still closed.
“Woof, woof, woof.” I heard again.
I turn around in my bed and my feet stick out from the cosy duvet into the chillness of the room. My eyes are still closed, though my mind isn’t.
It was a cold night of November. Dense fog gathered in the centre of the terrain. Over a ridge to the north, surrounded by rolling hills on each side, a desolate church stood isolated and abandoned, the fog slowly creeping towards it; tendrils, like fingers, clawed their way closer, slowly smothering the open pathway that lead to the entrance with the oak doors of the church. The hazel frame of the door had a corner missing, all splintered and fractured from where the mites had been chewing for centuries. The metal of the door handle had eroded with rust and the colour had faded from the harsh gold that it once was to a dull grey today, each screw had its own swarm of mites, chewing from corner to corner, fighting and competing against the rest.

The gravestones that surround the church outside from all four sides were standing stationary, helpless and crippled from age, each symbolizing its life through the gentle glimmer of light that was shining softly from above. The wind howling, almost creating sounds like the whispers of those who lay beneath. No other sounds except those of your feet as they step across the moss-covered ground. All around, the dead were kept company with statues of mythical creatures, gargoyles perched comfortably against the old black, wrought fencing tipped with spikes covered with old vines combined throughout. Stone angels peering at you as if to keep you away, or perhaps to invite you in and numerous black cats roaming around each and every grave as though there to pay their respects, every day, once a day.

The duvet of dark and threatening clouds were disturbed as the moonlight shone through the trees that were dead with dark trunks and thin branches and glazed each window; stained and shattered, every window represents life but also the brutal murder of those who lie awake beneath the stone and no-longer are seen or visited. Once upon a time, by each grave there lay a bouquet of flowers, colour in every corner. Now, there are no flowers. Instead in their place, a bed of thorns, sticks and dismay.

As the door that creaked from age and rust slowly opened, the dust that had been gathered for many years dispersed grain by grain. Every corner manifested with cobwebs; designed to barricade those who try to pass. Ants were crawling, scrounging, searching for everything and anything; scurrying past, out into their freedom. The furniture was covered in white sheets that had turned black over the years. It seemed as though no-one had been here for decades but the lights were

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