Inspired by Sue Vincent’s Thursday photo prompt.
For centuries it had been home. Built by some lordling, little more than a gentleman farmer, who lived surrounded by his fields and his folk in a gentle fold of the land, peaceful and mild. Then his line dwindled and died, the land was swept up by more powerful lords, and the house retreated within its copse of trees, on its little hill, and looked down on the old lands as they were ploughed under and transformed.
The years went by, and colza and cabbage lapped the foot of the little hill without ever climbing to the door of the house. From the arrow slit in the tower, crows peered down on waving crops, searching for the small movements of mice and lizards. Gradually, the roof fell in and rain washed the stone clean on the inside too. Grass filled in the cracked pavements, and foxes flitted in and out of the great hall on summer nights.
Perhaps the house would have gone to sleep forever, in its ring of ash trees, on it’s quiet hill. But I wandered there one day and the ghosts took my hand. Its worn pavements rang with dance steps and laughter, and it took me to its heart.