The night was still. The tumbleweed lay flat on the frosting blades of grass. These were the signs of a changing season. Smith Farm' was engraved on the stone posts that led to the entrance of what seemed like a graveyard. The snow slowly fell from the starless night over the tin roof. The farm was bare, as the snow had smothered the barren paddocks. Life seemed like it was in hibernation.
The cottage was old and made of rotting wood, which the paint had peeled off ages ago. The windows were dirty, and one could barely see the old tattered curtains that hung in the windows. The handrail going up the stairs to the front door was falling off, and the grass was at least three feet high.
Inside the weathered cottage, the furniture lay lopsided on the floor. Battered and torn it seemed like no one had entered the cottage in centuries. Black and white portraits covered the outdated wallpaper, and moss grew in the moist corners of the leaking ceiling. The old sooty oil lamp dripped as the oil leaked. A bookcase was the only item still standing up. Picture frames lay shattered and face down on the faded wood. The images had washed out from the damp conditions in the cottage. Depressed and cold the cottage was.
I think its time' Chuckie called.
Ok' replied Gabe anxiously.
It was just then that Chuckie threw a lit match on the petrol leading to the inside of the cottage. Bang!
The cottage was up in flames.
Chuckie and Gabe dashed away, not even taking a glance back at the damage they caused.