Proza

 
The boys waltzed up to the door.
 
The house curved up over them, brick dust occasionally
joining the wind’s smooth flight. A huge iron grill presented itself to them as
elegantly as iron can manage, and the door itself creaked with excitement at
the sight of fresh, innocent prey.
 
As if catalysed by the growing fear, the curtains and
letterbox and cat-flap all fluttered, driven by an unknown force: ‘almost
certainly ghosts’ thought one of the boys.
 
For a haunted house, this haunted house seemed very haunted.

 
One boy looked to the other.
 
“I think we should leave” he said.