The only occupants of the room were the spiders who had made it their home. Their thick webs spread like cotton wool, joining across the corners of the darkened ceiling. The room looked and smelt like it had seen no other guests for a long time, the scent of mildew and damp was overwhelming and many flecks of dust floated through the air, catching the bright light that penetrated the room in streams through the bare and clouded window. The light somehow looked out of place. The room almost recoiled from it, dancing instead in the shadowy corners.
In this interrogatory light was a chair, straight backed with a faded red upholstered cushion upon it. Its legs and back were a dark mahogany wood that gave an impression of lost grandeur. It sat directionless and desolated in the centre of the room.
Even the cold temperature of the room felt unwelcoming and would have made the hairs of someone used to the cold stand on end.
What had been this room’s purpose? What had it been used for?
It was too small to live in, yet the chair revealed that it had once been inhabited for some purpose. Three of the walls were sparse, their only trait being the dirt and grime that had accumulated over a long period of time. However, on the remaining wall, opposite the window, was a darker and cleaner rectangle where an archaic painting had once hung. The floor was decorated with a darker stain in partial light of a worrying reddish brown colour.
This is written for Day 2 of the Writing101 challenge: A descriptive piece.