Charles kicked the bucket blocking his path. Unfortunately it was full of water and he was only wearing flimsy slippers, so he actually just smashed his toe into the tin bucket, which then splashed water all over the floor.
“Oh FUCK IT!” He shouted to no one in particular.
He hobbled down the once regal corridor, steering clear of the black mould patches growing ominously here and there on the carpet. He hadn’t been in this part of the house for several years and whilst he could see the remaining staff had been doing what they could, it was obvious they were losing the battle.
He turned a corner and was met with a sight that stopped him dead. He was facing a set of narrow wooden stairs, stairs that he had tried to push from his mind many years ago. With the sight of the stairs, returned the memory of an old ghost he had almost forgotten.
He backed up the corridor, a chill moving down his spine. He hadn’t consciously been coming this way and was a little shocked to find himself at the site of the story he had told the estate agent a few weeks ago.