Atop Elm Hill sat the impossible house. Nobody knew how long it had been there – all architectural research had found a million contradicting pieces of evidence to indicate its age. But it looked as though it had sat there and an eternity had passed it by. The bricks that made up its walls were grey and crumbling. The windows were crooked, the glass cracked, steamed up and distorted. The pointed roof was made of dark grey tiles, dust forever falling away from them, like a lifeless waterfall.

The steps leading up to the ancient oak front door were formed by cold concrete, with rusted iron railings on either side. A demonic metal face rested on the door's surface, a large heavy door knocker hanging from its fanged mouth. The house towered high above the dead grass that surrounded it. It was four storeys high, including the spacious attic, and through the highest windows a faint blue flickering light could forever be seen.

The house's most impossible feature, however, was that it was still deserted after its many long years. Many people had entered the house over the years, but none had ever left. The way things had always been, were that whenever anybody came close to the house, or crossed its threshold, they were never seen again.

Elm Village, which the house overlooked, was home to many families, most of whom still felt the misery of the members they had lost to the manor. No longer did any of the village dwellers dare to approach the hilltop. However, every so often, there arose an exception.

James Walton was a young, fair haired boy, just ten years old on the afternoon he approached the house. His family had only just moved into the village, and he had been exploring his new neighbourhood. Running up the hill, filled with joy and excitement, he had found the house. Its foreboding appearance always seemed somehow thrilling and inviting to children. It was always the children who would dare to venture inside, without a second thought. James had approached it, clambering up the large concrete steps to the doorway. Before he had so much as laid a finger on the door, it had swung open before him with an ancient high pitched creaking. Anxiously, his eyes wide open with wondering awe, James stepped inside. The door slammed shut behind him. A short gasp of fear escaped his lips when he saw the wax models of butlers by either side of the door. Their features were hideously distorted; wide, bulging eyes staring out at him, mouths fixed in threatening smiles. James ran to the main stairway, quickly clambering up it to the next floor. At the top of the staircase, he ran down a small corridor, leading him into a vast, shadowy space. He stopped there, glancing around the darkened room, trying to see what was around him.

From somewhere behind him, in the shadows, he heard movement. Quickly, nervously spinning round, he peered at the far side of the room. Nothing there. It must have been his imagination. He started to walk to the next set of stairs, when he heard it again – a fast, scuttling sound, like a thousand spider legs on a wooden floor. James froze, scared. Something was there, in the room with him and he didn't know what. The noise sounded again, faster louder, getting closer. James was breathing heavily, scared, knowing the noise had come from behind him. Slowly, his eyes half closed, he turned around, facing the thing in the dark. His eyes snapped wide open. James Walton screamed his last.