Despite the dust and the emptiness, the scent of furniture polish hangs in the air, mixed with the earthy fungal smell of dry rot. The wooden boards underfoot look unhealthy, feel spongy. The timbers, cracked like crazy paving, span wide spaces and in corners and from ceilings, the curled brown plates of bracket fungi protrude.
I tread carefully, placing my feet where aligned ranks of nail heads suggest the extra support of some beam underneath.
There can’t be anyone here…
Surely?
A wild goose chase?
Is that the game?
To keep me on the run?
My phone held close to my body, I swing my screen in a wide arc, the pallid beam barely lighting the darkness, scanning through almost one-eighty…
… then swing back.
The darkness isn’t quite complete.
Across the floor, over the expanse of dust
