Blood-red curtains adorned her wavy, lead-glass windows, the panes of which ached to be opened. Years of paint held them captive in the narrow, wooden tracks. Off-white tongue and groove boards crowded each other up to the 18 foot high ceilings. Delicate candle-shaped bulbs were imprisoned in an iron cage of leaves and vines; the cell suspended in the air by a heavy bronze chain.
An ole-timey wooden stove outlet was still in the ceiling but filled with insulation and a heavy steal lid, forever cutting off the flow of sweet wood-smoke. An eerie attic access door hung out on the north side of the room. It taunted, “Are you scared yet? Are you scared yet?”
A forgotten fire place lounged to the west. A thoughtful frown left by the covering spoke of happier times. “Where are the ghosts of residents past? Come enjoy me again.”
A tiny closet for wood was its companion to the right. The keyed lock had been smothered with white paint for many, many years. It, too, wanted to be used for its rightful purpose.
Wooden floors languished underfoot. Too rustic to be polished, a brown coat of paint was slathered on as an afterthought. Bits of paint have been-
Get out of my bedroom! Who said you could come in here?