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Louise Barden Original Writing The building appeared daunting. Cold, grey, stone walls towered before me to a roof of gables and tall chimneys. The dank, green, lifeless ivy swept across the walls. Clumps of withered plants straggled along the path, everything was grey or black or dull, shrivelled brown. I made my way cautiously to the front door. I unlocked the large, creaking door and stepped into the chilly hall. The house had a cave-like smell of mould. For some unknown reason a feeling of dread gripped the pit of my stomach. Only a few weeks ago I learned that I had inherited a country house from a distant relative and the keys had been handed to me that morning. I continued down the hallway into the kitchen which was at the end of the corridor. It was a large room and, after putting down my bags, I switched on the kettle and walked over...

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