The old cottage looked deserted, so Mary pushed the door open…

The door creaked and groaned as she turned the rusty wooden door knob, squeaking as it twisted, dust floating off gently, as if saying goodbye to the place it had inhabited in. The door finally opened to reveal a murky and gloomy interior. The couch was cloaked in a cape of dust, coating it with misty speckles of sand. The cape would’ve flown in the air, showing off its marvellous spectacles of dust, smaller than a grain of rice, had the couch not been soaked with a bluish-green substance. It looked like someone had poured a bucket full of rainwater, except that the bucket was made out of seaweed and rotten eggs. Before the stubborn door had finally consented to disclose the happenings inside the house, a terrible stench had wafted her way first. She flailed her hand in hope the smell would just drift away, the thought that it had probably remained in the house for over a month not crossing her mind. At last, when she couldn’t bear it any longer, she plugged her nose and walked inside, hope that there were other rooms vacant surging through her veins. Finally finding the source of the hateful stench seemed to cleanse her mind of any thoughts about the smell. Turning to look at the right corner, she spotted a vase, glistening with dust as it stood there, only a single flower which happened to have wilted occupying it. The petals were pitch-black at the tips, as if it had been burned, and any colour the flower might have possessed had faded down to a placid grey. A shiver suddenly ran down her spine, which happened to jolt her thoughts back to the original reason she had found this place. Another cold shiver slid down, its icy cold aura riding along with it. She remembered she was soaking wet, drenched in water, head to toe. Somehow she had forgotten about it, no doubt that the strange and unwelcoming atmosphere was behind it. She gave out an enormous yawn and her hand instinctively shot up to stifle it. She lowered it again, only to find blood staining it. Of course. She remembered falling down as she was running, hitting the solid ground with a thud. She got up and started to run again, even though she had the choice to walk through the forest. But, somehow, she knew that wasn’t a good idea…

The memories flooded in, one by one, each one of them playing in her mind as if a disc was dancing on its player, twirling and spinning. She saw herself and her father just strolling in the woods, ambling to random spots which she found interesting, despite being the most ordinary. She was chatting happily about her plans for the one-month holiday break she had, excitedly listing up fun activities they could do together: have a picnic, bird watching, camping. That was when the tragedy struck. A horrendous storm approached the farmlands surrounding them. Her father suggested they go back home upon noticing the grey clouds huddled up in the sky like they were planning a huge surprise. But he was too late, for the storm noticed them. To them, they just saw it as a horrible and trouble-causing storm. Well, she used to. Now she saw it for what it really was; A terror-evoking, damaging gale, spinning faster and faster. She just hadn’t noticed it then, for it hadn’t divulged its intentions to her until it was too late. It raced towards them like it was racing against light, coming close and closer by the second. She remembered the sun being overshadowed by the stone clouds, the lightning whizzing past, wrecking everything in its way. The trees, bushes, shrubs, grass, name it and it was sucked into the twirling gale, spun round and round until blown off-course. She remembered rain hitting her like the droplets were rocks. It only took a few seconds for her to realise it. This was a hailstorm.

“But it was so sunny? How-” before she was able to finish her sentence, a scream pierced through, cutting it in half. She bolted towards the direction of her father, anxious to know what caused this. She saw a sight she knew she would never forget. It would always remain in the back of her mind, haunting her.

Her father was laying on the ground, coughing as pebbles the size of lemons bashed against his arm. His fit of coughs dissolved into choking, and she couldn’t do anything about it. She kneeled to help him, but he shook his head as he muttered one word.

“Go,” he croaked, blood dripping from his mouth now. The word had been so faintly said that she was surprised she was able to hear it, yet it had a big impact. She got up and bolted away, further and further away from where he lay. The sight flashed in her mind, clearer each time it displayed itself in her mind. The word ‘Go’ kept popping up in her mind frequently, and the more she heard it, the further she ran away from the place where she had once been endlessly babbling about her holiday plans. It seemed so far away now.

She blinked, wanting to go back to the cottage she had stumbled upon, in spite of it clearly stating she was unwelcome. She didn’t care, though; anywhere was better than her memories, even an abandoned cottage with dust and murk wrapping up every surface and item visible. She looked around wearily, exhausted from the wild night she’d had, and looked for a door. She shouldn’t have, though; a single door stood straight ahead, the wood peeling off slightly as the doorknob twisted. She had to yank at it five times for the door to open, resulting in it breaking loose. She held it, barely registering she was holding it, and the door knob was left to be dropped onto the floor, a thud echoing around. Mary seemed to have lost the ability to care ever since she witnessed what happened in the forest she thought was her ‘safe place’. Ha, so much for a safe place. Worn out and weary, she slumped onto the bed that lay in front of her, falling asleep the moment her head hit the hard wood of the bed frame. She mumbled only a few words before falling into the beautiful escape that was sleep.

“When will this end?” It turned out, not very quickly. After what seemed like a minute, she woke up groggily, though she knew hours had passed. She looked around, and noticed no change. Everything was the same: rock-hard bed, dust-filled room, items covered in murky moss, muddy, wet moss…

After a second, she noticed the obvious. How was the moss wet? Did someone break in? Alarmed, she got up. Alas though, she had just woken up so she could barely register what was happening. Somehow, however, she staggered to a shelf dripping with wet moss and touched it. Yes, it is wet, her weary and asleep mind thought. She peered at the roof, and stared at it. Finally, a droplet fell on her cheek and she realised it was raining. And what’s more, the bricks of the roof were trembling – though not in the way Mary thought. You see, those bricks were old, and they were shaking, but not enough to be alarming.

Poor Mary didn’t have the chance to read this, because then she’d know the slight quiver of the roof needn’t cause alarm. She came back into the house soaked through. Now, when she was really awake, she could do with some exploring, seeing that the rain wasn’t showing any signs of stopping. Mary knew this because rain had the tendency to come at the worst times and either: option A – rain frequently with little breaks or option B – a heavy downpour of rain would occur.