The art of dirty deeds

English Coursework Robert Hoarsely Another cupboard smashed onto the heavy oak table as the maelstrom of debris continued to swirl, fuelled by the vicious wind from the broken windows. There was a resounding crack as a chair was hurled at the table. “You left me to rot, you are no son of mine,” wailed the lady of the house. He couldn’t see her, she was invisible, but he knew all too well she was there as he cowered under the table. The rain continued to pound down, its staccato beat all too loud through the broken windows.
Lightning flashed as he made a break for the door that was banging against the wall in the mind. An Inhuman shriek came from behind him. He raced through the door as the table he had been taking refuge hurtled after him into the doorway in a shower of plaster and splinters. The main hallway he was now in was dominated by a huge glittering chandelier. He paused for a moment to catch his breath as he heard his mother howling in rage. With a groan the chandelier above him ripped away from the ceiling.
It fell onto him with a crash, landing In an explosion of glittering glass like a frenzied rave of fireflies. He had barely enough time to think as It knocked him cold. As he flitted in and out of consciousness he remembered how he came to be in that current predicament. Don’t go daddy,” said his daughter. “We want you to be here for Christmas daddy,” whined his son. “Of course I’ll be back for Christmas; I’m Just off for a week to get granny’s old stuff from her house in the Yorkshire Dales. It’ll only be a week you know that and Ill tell you what, Ill bring extra Christmas presents. “Do be careful Mr. Jerome,” said the nursemaid as she ushered the children onto the pavement. “l will,” Mr. Jerome said as the children chorused goodbyes , he climbed into the carriage and with a flick of the driver’s reins the arraign picked up speed down the misty London street. He vaguely remembered the train Journey as the inky blackness swept past, punctuated by lights of villages. He Intended to collect family heirlooms and other valuables to distribute to his family back In London. The dark looming mass of the house had dwarfed him as he had stepped off the carriage.

Its Imposing bulk seemed to swallow all living things through its gloomy shaded windows and solid looking front door. It was big enough to take a week to go through all the rooms to get what he needed, then sort them. Lang resounded throughout his head as the huge chandelier was savagely picked up and hurled Into the solid wooden front doors. Then there was a deafening silence In the house. The rain continued to beat down outside and the wind ripped at the garden but the house was silent once more.
Rubbing his head, he climbed the grand staircase, still wary of the ghost of his mother. He made his way to the study where there were three traveling trunks, two of which were full of the valuables and the other was to be filled with Important documents. There was the distinctive tang of smoke but his thoughts were on other things. The door handle felt unusually warm as he opened leaping flames that had already consumed his traveling trunks and was taking hold of the rest of the room in a fiery, swirling inferno.
Coughing from the swirling smoke he stumbled into the hallway. It was spreading rapidly, too fast to be any normal fire. His mother, he thought, she was burning down the house, the house he had been brought up in, the house she had lived in for over 60 years. As he watched, smoke streamed out of other rooms in tendrils and the smell of smoke was overpowering. He was trapped; he was going to be burned alive, scorched and screaming in this twisted, sick house.

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