James McCreet
It had always been referred to by everyone as a farm;1 although the Dickinson place, which had now been derelict for almost thirty years,2 was a smallholding3 just a short walk from the primary school.4 The small wooden gate at the front of the fireblackened house,5 which overlooked the main road to the village,6 now lay on the ground like a long-dead sentry7 halfway inside the overgrown garden – 8 broken, rotting, and beyond repair.9 Most of the stable block had long since collapsed,10 and the corrugated metal sheets were now covered in grass and leaves, although several still swung precariously at the side of the cracked and moss-strewn driveway.11 Apple trees soared high above the house aping giant oaks,12 their roots having broken through the tarmacadam path leading to the porticoed front door;13 seeking dominance over the bracken and encroaching ivy.14 The ten feet high privet hedges shielded the lower half of the property from all sunlight throwing it into perpetual shadow.15 However, through the gloom16 could be seen the smoke-blackened windows – or what was left of them, 17 after the intense heat of the flames had caused the glass to explode all around the building like Chinese firecrackers.18 Broken and jagged now, splinters19 of the moss-covered windowpanes20 stood out from their frames like sentinels, threatening21 anyone foolish enough to enter the old house.22