A/N
Please let me know what you think- this is a folio piece I wrote for English. Constructive criticism is welcomed.

The Old Brick House

If anyone had been watching on that dismal, dreary morning, they would have seen a ruffled looking stranger walk up the lawn, ignoring the garden path, towards the old brick house. They would have seen him stand on the damp grass, staring at his wet, worn boots for several minutes, lost in thought as the wind, which ruffled his uncut hair, blew a discarded newspaper against his grisly, stone-set face, already streaked with rain, carving unknown symbols into weeks worth of dirt and grime. He showed no emotion as he calmly caught and folded it, wedging it under his arm. Nobody, however, would have seen him glance- even once- at the house. Because he didn't. Even when he turned to follow the gravel around the side of the house to the back garden, hidden from view by a large stone wall, to be reached through a broken gate. Here, he finally permitted himself to look up at the house. He stood on the unkempt lawn in the timeless garden, which looked the same as it had on the first day he had stood here- stretching right down the hill, merging with a wild wilderness which had once been an orchard- and stared at the dark building, three storeys high. It appeared to stare back. Large black windows, encased by ivy seemed to take up the majority of the wall space. He supposed, when the sun shone, this would have a positive effect. Today, they gave the house the impression of a many-eyed giant.

The man stood mesmerised by the house for sometime. It wasn't all eerie. The house held a lot of meaning to him, here he felt at home. At that moment, his train of thought was interrupted as a flash of light caught his eye. For a while, he had been aware of the sky gradually lightening. Now the sun emerged from the depths of the black clouds, giving them a lighter, more friendly appearance. Then, as he looked back at the house, he realised the light was coming from within. He took an involuntary step forward, then another, until he was only feet from the window. He could see the room inside was furnished as a sitting room, not the kitchen it used to be. Then he realised the house was occupied.

An old but sturdy looking woman stood in front of a shelf, heaving a mirror to and fro, until it stood exactly straight, propt-up against the wall. She then straightened up and put her hands on her back, as if it was causing her pain, and smoothed her silvery grey hair, although it was already so tightly scraped back, it was unlikely to come loose for several years. All the big furniture in the room was already expertly arranged, all facing the fireplace. Something, however, seemed out of place to her. She crossed the room in three strides and grabbed the arms of the chair as if it had personally offended her then set about yanking it back and forwards over a minute area. She persisted for the best part of five minutes with no result. When she finally stood up, she pressed her lips tightly together then threw up her arms in obvious despair then left the room, turning the light off and slamming the door as she went. Once again, all the windows were black.

The stranger stood on the grass for sometime, mystified by what he'd seen. He then retreated into the orchard, where he hoped to find shelter for the night. He would return tomorrow.

Day after day for almost a month, the stranger returned. Sometimes, he would stand motionless on the grass and watch in fascination as the old woman went about her daily life. Often, he would sit in an old birch tree, allowing him to get a better view of the higher windows. The woman never appeared to notice.

On the contrary, the villagers were beginning to talk of the strange old woman who never left her house, and the dirty, unfamiliar man who often walked up the garden path in the morning, only to leave, if at all, late at night. Little did they know the two new comers had never even acknowledged each other. For several weeks this persisted, long after the villagers grew tired of the gossip. And eventually, the stranger grew tired of the woman.

It happened on a rare, sunny day, as he was sitting in the tree. Today, the woman was arranging an upstairs bathroom, when, to his extreme annoyance, she fixed a long rail hung with curtains to the top of the window. She was now obscured from view. The stranger heaved a sigh and lent back against the tree trunk, allowing his eyes to close. He woke again as the garden was darkening. Hopping lightly down from the tree, he noticed movement in the living room. When he looked closer, he saw the woman was in there again, shifting the chair slightly but apparently never satisfying herself. He was surprised, as he stood, that he did not feel as intrigued as usual. He felt he would be quite able to turn his back and walk away should he want to. At first, he waited to see if the woman would tire and move onto something more interesting. He waited until the sky became so dark, he could see the stars before turning his back and walking briskly away and vanished around the side of the house. The garden he left was as black as pitch. A flock of invisible birds flew overhead, squawking and circling, before settling down for the night. Altogether, a peaceful scene. This did not reflect the strangers' mood as he collected his bag from the trees and made his way to the station, feeling more agitated than he had before he visited the village. As he lay on an uncomfortable bench that night, he wondered who would be kind enough to pay his fare north the next morning.

At the house, had the stranger been there to watch, he would have seen the old woman throw up her hands in exasperation as the clock struck ten. He would have seen her plonk herself down in the armchair. He might have seen her lips moving but he wouldn't have heard her mutter;

"Still something wrong."

He would then have seen her eyes flicker inconspicuously towards the window before turning to stare out into the dark garden. Astonishment crossed her face and he would have recognised a look of pure relief as she realised the young man was no where to be seen. He would have felt a little sorry for her, perhaps, and regretted returning everyday to watch her. He would have wondered if it was his fault she seemed reluctant to look out the window during the day. He would have wondered if it was down to him that she seemed reluctant to turn of her lamp at night and lie down in her bed. He would have speculated that she worried about him coming into the house whilst she was asleep. The paranoid old woman who felt so young inside could be seen locking and re-locking each door twice every night. She could now relax. In the morning, she would wake up after a refreshing nights sleep and not have to see the same, grimy, worn face outside her window.

The next morning, the woman found herself wandering aimlessly through the house. The absence of the stranger seemed to have lifted a weight off her shoulders, she was in an abnormally good mood. Without consciously deciding to, she found herself gravitating towards the back door. She stood for a second before gently laying her hand on the handle. It was icy cold. She shivered but pulled herself together, then pressed down. The door was stiff. This surprised and relieved her, she now knew the stranger had never stood in the room she now stood in. Her heart was pumping almost painfully in her chest as she pulled the door towards her and felt the yeas of dirt come loose. Spiders and leaves rained on the mat which she quickly lifted to shake outside. Before she was aware, she was standing on the grass. She gasped. Her fear disappeared completely as she smelt the fresh, chilli air. Exhilaration washed through her and she laughed out loud for the first time in years. It began to drizzle and this, for some reason, pushed her over the edge and she found herself doubled over with tears running down her cheeks. She reached behind her and undid her hair, brushing through it with her fingers until the grey mass swirled around her body. It reached the top of her legs, she realised in wonder.

As her laughing fit subsided, she sat back onto the grass, not caring that it was wet. She threw her head back, shaking her hair from around her face, and looked at the sky. The clouds were grey and fat. They moved slowly across the sky, spitting a few droplets of rain now and again. It was a long time before she realised that she was crying. This time, her tears were of regret. It had taken her twenty years to learn to grieve peacefully for Tommy.

Days passed, weeks and eventually, months- there was no sign of the stranger. A lot had changed around the old house. No longer did the old woman spend hours moving the chair back and forth; she had accepted now it would never look the same whilst Tommy wasn't about to sit in it.

The villagers had forgotten about the stranger long ago. Now, they gossiped of the mysterious woman, believed to be the unseen tenant of the old brick house. She often left the house for half an hour on a nice day to venture down to the high-street. On several occasions, she had a pleasant conversation about the weather with the Pharmacist.

The other rooms in the house had been showing signs of neglect for decades. Showing her willingness to move on, the old woman progressed to decorating her bedroom, buying a brand new table for the dining room and plenty of toiletries for the bathroom. Her house became a home which she was proud of. In the early days of the winter, she had her fireplace done up. This workmen were the first to enter her home. This had a nice effect, especially when the kitten she took in lay in front at night. She named it 'Spring' – symbolic to her of all things new and changing; representing the stage in her life.

Christmas was a quiet affair in the big house. The old woman, however, had no money worries and found herself buying a six-and-a-half foot live tree which would only fit in her dining room. Spring proved himself far more decorative than any fairy or star when he jumped up into the higher branches and perched precociously on top of the tree.

Finally, the days became longer and warmer. The garden came to life and the woman worked tirelessly to tame it into her own small piece of paradise. She got herself a part-time job in the chemist and became good friends with the pharmacist, Jared. If her life had been a picture, this would have been the brightest part after the dark, horrifying section which represented Tommy's death. The attic of the house, she discovered, seemed to hold all sorts of exquisite secrets. Every other day, she would find an interesting object which, if possible, she would take to show Jared who had a deep interest in antiques.

And so it continued. The attic was her refuge, were she would hide herself after a hard day. Jared was her mentor. He looked after her in many ways. It was almost as if he sensed she was recovering from a difficult experience and never pushed her to open up. Each day, she would walk to the chemists, whether she was working or not. She would chat for hours with Jared, revealing more of herself to him than she had to anyone with the exception of Tommy, of course.

One morning, she awoke early and went to sit in the garden. Only the birds were about for company but they dared not to approach as Spring sat purring contently in her lap. There was a slight breeze which blew her thin silver hair against her neck. It was one of those warm, lazy days that only happened once in a while to the area surrounding the village.

She felt no anticipation when walking to work. The wind still danced softly around the hedges and the sun was beginning to beat down hard as she entered the chemists, setting off a quiet tinkling of bells. Jared greeted her a little quieter than usual but she wasn't paying much attention. Her attic would be warm today- she could get a lot done.

The first customer arrived quite soon and put those thoughts out of her head. Jared dealt with them as usual whilst she wandered around, stocking the shelves and making a list of products and supplies to be ordered. She started on mopping the floor when Jared called her from the office. She straightened up and glanced at the calender; her pay day wasn't for another week. Curious, she propped the mop up and made her way through. He motioned for her to sit opposite him. She noticed he was fidgeting in his seat had playing with his fingers.

"Alice...I..." He stopped and appeared to take in her expression.

"Jared?"

"I..." He got up and walked round the desk. He patted her on the shoulder reassuringly, appearing to be in the midsts of some kind of internal battle. He then crouched down on one knee.

"Will you marry me, Alice?"

A look of shock was her only expression as he produced a blue box and offered her a silver diamond ring.

"Jared...How?" She was astonished.

"I'm three years younger than you, Alice. At our age, that hardly makes a difference." He laughed shortly but stopped suddenly as his eyes fell on the gold wedding bend she still wore. The only sound in the office was the consistent ticking of the clock and Jared's heavy breathing.

"Alice?" He whispered.

A look of pure rage consumed her features as she stormed from the shop, slamming the door, setting off the annoying tinkling noise. Jared was left kneeling on the floor, looking at the ring in despair.

Alice panted her way up the hill to the house. She didn't stop until she had barricaded herself in a deep corner of the attic with Spring. Still panting, she sat cross-legged on the floor and opened the closest box.

At first glance, it appeared to contain only vast bundles of old, yellowed paper but as she looked closer, she realised it contained many separate bundles of old envelopes. Some were addressed to a "Mrs Moira Grey" whilst others were to a "Mr James Grey"- she knew these names from her previous finds, they were former residents of the house. The old lady faltered as she reached for the first bundle but curiosity prevailed and she lifted a stack out which she dropped in a moment of terror as Spring landed in front of her having jumped from the rafters, bringing with him a pile of dust. She coughed and laughed at her own stupidity and pulled the now not so white cat onto her lap. She picked up a random letter and began to read.

Moira,

When you get this, I will have moved on, but I cant say where. I miss you sweetheart. I wish you

were her. Saw a tiger yesterday... clue there. Fightings bad. Seen some pretty horrible stuff but that's not why I'm writing. Hope to see you soon,

The old woman gasped, frozen with shock. She picked another letter.

Moira,

I'm fine, stop fretting. Things going well, I think. Hopeful it should be over soon. Cant go into

details. Dying to see you and our Jess again.

She realised the story the letters were telling and sat still for a few moments. First one tear, then many more rolled down her cheeks as she picked up letter after letter, following 'James' around the world as he fought for the country. Until;

Moira,

Good news at last! We have made progress. I was hit by God knows what yesterday and I'm now 'unfit to

fight' ! I cant wait to see you and Jess again because I'm gonna be home for Christmas! Make sure you get the biggest tree, make the best cake...

Jess... they'd had a child. But Alice didn't read any more. She was wrapped up in her own grief as she rocked back and forth, tears running down her cheeks. She was seeing her own past as if looking through a window.

A young woman of about twenty stands alone in a small kitchen, covered in flour. She punches the dough again and again with real violence but she knows its not working. Frustrated, she lets out a yell and runs her floury hands through her long, black pony tail.

"Mum?" a small, lisping voice can be heard from upstairs.

"I'm ok, Tom. I'm cooking." She struggles to pull herself together but she's frustrated.

There's no reply.

The doorbell goes and the woman wipes her hands on her apron, rushing to open the door. It's ten o'clock, the postman is waiting for her on the step.

"Can I get you...?" She begins to offer him a coffee but he cuts over her;

"Mornin'." He says curtly, hands over the post and retreats down the path.

This doesn't improve her mood; she never knew anything of the customs of the countryside! Sighing, she takes the post inside and dumps it on the table. There's a couple of important looking letters which she pushes aside, searching for the small, dirty, handwritten one. She reads a short note from her husband, Tommy, away fighting. It brings a tear to her eye which she wipes away. No point in grieving.

Three weeks later, the same woman is standing in the kitchen again, trying desperately to make a loaf of bread. She hears the approach of the postman and runs to get the door. She's startled when she notices the postman's expression and gasps as he hands her the usual bundle, plus a brown envelope from the British army. She accepts the letter with a brave attempt at a smile. The postman wishes her luck in a quiet voice as he leaves the garden.

Alice takes the post and puts it aside. Taking only one letter from the pile.

Mrs Alice Grey,

It is with regret that we inform you that your husband passed away on the date 19/8.

His death was a sudden, heroic affair and he would not have wished it any other way. He was an inspirational man and we thank you, for him, for his services to the country.

Yours

General Johnson

The stranger walked up the street once so familiar to him. The house itself held a testament to the time that had passed. Now the garden was neat and tidy. The windows were lighter and clean. As he put his hand on the side gate, he noticed a lone man shuffle past looking guiltily at his shoes. The back garden was as changed as the front, he realised. Fresh fruit was ripening in the orchard and the old beech tree was missing. As the man stood alone on the lawn, he could not see any signs of movement in the windows.

For three days, the stranger returned and for three days, he waited in vain to see the old woman. On the fourth day, he pushed aside his conscience and marched straight in the back door, pleased to find it unlocked. The woman was apparently house proud, he reflected, but everything was covered by a thin layer of dust. As the stranger looked in each room, he became more and more confused. Not a picture or an ornament could be seen anywhere which might give a clue to the person living there. The house was airy and had an eerie feel.

As he came back into the hall, he noticed a ladder leading up to a trap door which had been pushed aside. He stood for a moment, checked if it was stable, then began to climb.

"Hello?" he called out into the dusty attic.

Not a sound reached his ears for several moments so he began to explore. Then he heard it. A single, quiet yowl, like that of a cat. Startled, he jumped and banged his head on a wooden rafter. Cursing and blinding, he followed the sound. It was nearly dark outside and the attic was poorly lit. Soon he sensed the presence of another being. He stopped to allow for his eyes to adjust. Then he looked around again. His eyes fell on the old woman as she lay, white and dusty on the floor, with not a blemish on her ghostly skin. A white can lay staring at him on her stationary chest.