This really does feel more fiction than fact. But the place where we went, I really felt freaked out at first, as though I was in a freaky horror movie. I literally started writing a horror story in my head…and that’s how it comes out on paper…so Part Nine, Ten and I think Eleven and Twelve will be a little different to what I’ve written so far…
…The car shudders, and my dad swears, waving his hand in the back mirror of the idiot driver, his hand showing a rude gesture.
We turn back, and we drive a kilometre or two back the way we came, our eyes peeled on the left side of the road. We watch the golden landscape framed in green fly past as we watch for the side that will show us the way. I’m the first one to jump and shout. I point, and my dad slams his foot on the brakes.
As we reverse and turn into the narrow dusty gravel lane, I’m blinded by the sun and the sight of yellowed grass.
At first I’m elated that we’re finally here and we pull up to the big, abandoned-like house. Outside there is are two people washing a bus. It’s an old bus, not even a normal bus that’s just worn from use, but a bus that looks as though it came from another century. My dad parks, and walks over to the gentleman holding the hose. I can’t hear them talking, even though their loud voices are resounding back to us. Their words are indistinct, and faint as though passing through a barrier of water. I watch.
The building behind them is double storey. It has worn pale yellow rendered walls and a semi-circle balcony sticking out the front. At the side, behind the bus is a metal emergency exit leading to a door. I can’t tell if it’s dark because it’s shaded or dark from the paint. I can’t tell, but it’s like a blackhole in a sea of summer sunshine. And I get that wash of eeriness once again, I shudder.
My dad comes back with a smile on his face. And we venture further into the farm. There’s a house up ahead, two houses, with a sign at the front. As we neared, the texture of the road becomes rough and harsh, causing the car to jump high on its suspension.
We turn right and we pass between a shed sheltering a caravan and another parked in the middle of the mowed land. Even in broad daylight, they look dark and abandoned. With the shutters drawn and their doors shut, there’s no one home. With the deceiving clothes line with clothes on it, you think, oh, there’s someone that lives here. But as I look closer, at the one person tent next to the shed, I realise it couldn’t be possible.
Lying across the tent was a branch from the tree above. As we slowly drive past, I feel my breath catch with fear, as I ask myself, who lives here?