Deep in the north of wales a blackstone cottage remains undisturbed since the 1960’s.

Settled between isolated hills and cold marsh rivers, this house was once a home to a small family who kept to themselves between the hills. Ingrid and her husband Edward herded sheep and walked the icy rivers around the cottage. We walked for miles to find the house between the hills of north wales. It was cold with the essence of fog stalking behind the remains of cobblestone walls and sheep skeletons. The trees were shadows of their former selves. They could no longer breathe the air that was once given to the beautiful countryside. I found myself almost being devoured between the marsh that was protecting the house from ever being seen. It was built with the blackest of stone. Every window was sealed with metal to keep the light from going inside. Rain was quietly coming down from the eerily dark sky that sounded similar to the echoing of voices in the distance.

Victorian medicine bottles inside cabinets and poetry books stacked inside shelves. A music box was placed upon the vanity table with a small ballerina waiting for the key to be turned. Walking back through the marsh with the fog slowly devouring the house between the stomach of the countryside, we noticed a girl was watching us from behind a plague of rocks. She was wearing an old farm dress. With each step she moved curiously with her gaze like a lischen watching us walk away from the house.

Finding a small window that was broken, i climbed into the darkness. No light could reach inside the house. Inside a grandfather clock with an organ sat beside a window laid undisturbed with letters and diaries left behind. The house was cold. It echoed of memories of Edward and Ingrid spending their evenings by the fire listening to their phonograph whilst the world outside existed whilst theirs stayed the same. Every corner was a memory. Faded, alone and locked deep inside the darkness of the house. With each step the stairs made a sound inside the black that was ahead of the hallway. In the bedrooms, suitcases filled with letters from grandchildren thanking Ingrid for the knitted jumpers they were given for christmas.

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