The Witch House stands in an unassuming street in the electoral ward of Northwich Central: dirty, crumbling, and accreted with decades of dark rumour and witch-legend. Such houses linger long after their time, maintaining a tenuous foothold on existence as signifiers of those blemished places where the world wears thin; they are symptomatic of uncertain thresholds and blurred boundaries with the Outside - thresholds and boundaries indexed by strange histories of blood, madness and a long string of unaccountable disappearances. If one tarries too long in the shadow of such places, drawn by the disquieting enchantment of their decrepitude, a gaunt, pale face will eventually be seen peering with sinister intent through a gap in the worn and ragger curtains. Were one take up habitation in such a locale, one might expect to eventually endure - in a suitably grotesque and spectacular fashion - a transition into some horrible, new state of being.
The house has remained tenantless for the last few years. No one is sure what happened to the last occupants.
No comments:
Post a Comment