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The trees were swaying more violently than ever, slashing the overcast sky with their bare branches. The snow was deep, and the old manor looked worn against the handsome backdrop of the Canadian countryside. He craned his neck to look up at the house, the roof tiles were buckled from the wind, snow lay hidden between the crumbled brickwork, a number of windows were smashed, and the shutters were swinging dangerously from their brown rusted hinges. The sight sent a shiver down his spine.

He trudged warily towards, the aged wrought iron gates, kicking the snow up as he went. Frosted cobwebs, stretched across the bars, a small black and red backed spider, stood guard. He lifted the latch cautiously, so as not to disturb the spider, and passed through into the front garden.
The path was uneven and split, moss grew around the edges, and the small icy patches shone cold in the light. He came to a halt when he reached the faded oak doors; he lifted his small grubby hand and clasped it slowly around the large brass door-knocker. The cold metallic touch clung to his finger like ice and made the hair on the back of his neck stand up; he gripped it tighter and knocked three times. He heard the sound echo through the hollow walls as he waited.

He heard mumbling from behind, and the huge door creaked with displeasure as it was thrust open. A woman stood at the door, her blonde hair blew gently in the chill breeze, and her brilliant green eyes shone out of her face. A warm smile spread across her face, as she gestured Barrat into the porch. The house inside, was enough to make your stomach churn. The halls were redolent of the rich aroma of coffee, which unsuccessfully masked the smell of the damp rising in the corners, and the burgundy patterned carpet looked sickly in the fading lamp light. Huge padded velvet armchairs, lined the corridors, and every inch, of the textured, floral wallpaper, was covered with hideous oil paintings, faded photographs, and framed tapestries.
'Okay? Sweetie' enquired his mother, as she bent over to face him. She had been waiting tentatively for his return for several hours. She held his small hands in hers, and shot him a despairing glance.
'Can't you do anything without getting muddy?' she chuckled, as she wiped the dirt off his face, with the back of her sleeve. He shuffled his feet, and looked down at the disgusting threadbare carpet.
'Go and wash your hands then' willing to escape the repulsive hallway, he obeyed his mother and scurried off down the corridor to the bathroom.

Uncle's bathroom was the sixth door on the left. It disappointed Barrat to see, that the theme of shoddy decoration was indeed continued throughout the house. The ceramic tiles lining the wall were light purple, each displaying a different image of a plant, with its Latin name beneath it. 'Lonicera Periclymenum' read the tile directly above the sink, to its left sat 'Myosotis Palustrius' a small blue and pink flower, that wouldn't have looked out of place in a wedding bouquet, but did however, look out of place in Uncle Gregory's bathroom. Barrat slid his hand over the tarnished gold tap, and twisted it left. It didn't shift, he tried right, yet still it conceited no water. He sighed in disbelief; he tried twisting it left again. Feeling the give in the mechanism, he pulled a little harder; fell backwards and backed into the hideous bath, as the tap handle flew off behind the radiator. He punched his fist against the pink tasseled rug to little effect. He sat back up tiresomely, deciding that perhaps the taps in the bath would offer more joy. He twisted around on the floor, and peered down into the dark green abyss that was the bath. He reached over to the tall tap, and to his relief, torrents of water began to fall into the sea of green. He ran his small hands through the water timidly, then took a lavender towel from the rack, and wiped most of the mud onto that. He left the bathroom, feeling only marginally cleaner than he had on entering it.

His mother stood at the end of the hallway, arranging the umbrellas, into what appeared to be a perfect spectrum. He skipped over to her side, and sat himself on the floor in order to watch her umbrella arranging skills.
'Have you seen your Uncle yet honey?' she said.
'No' answered Barrat in a breezy fashion. 'Where is he anyway?'
'In the drawing room I think dear'
'Can I go see him, before supper?' asked Barrat excitedly. She turned away from the umbrellas, which were indeed arranged into a perfect spectrum, and faced him.
'Of course you can. But remember he's not been too good since your Aunt Eliza died'
'OK mum, I'll be extra nice to him' He replied, and he smiled. His mother smiled back. He scurried off joyfully down the corridor, as he passed the door to the kitchen, he was met by a wonderful smell, Uncle Gregory's house keeper was always the best cook. He turned off into the kitchen,
'Hello Barrat' said the old cook, beaming at him. "Back again I see!"
"Yes!" Barrat replied, excitedly! "What's for supper?!" she grinned at him,
"Hot pot and dumplings" Barratt's smile spread further up his face,
"I love your cooking, it's the best ever!" Cook blushed, her chest swelling in pride.
"You're always so kind dear." whispered the cook, shining down on him. He looked up, and smiled at her. Cooks expression changed.
"Have you seen your uncle yet dear?" her voice was sympathetic, though, Barrat didn't know why.
"No" said Barrat, sounding confused. "I was just on my way down there, when I saw you"
"Well you really ought to go speak to him, he's not the same as he used to be though" she kept her gaze away from his, and busied herself chopping potatoes. Barrat didn't understand why she was acting like this at the mention of his uncle, his uncle was a wonderful, kind and happy man, he always made him smile.
"Yes, that's what mother said earlier" he said to cook "I'll go see him now"
"There's a good lad" said the cook, still not looking at him. He turned out of the kitchen, back onto the long corridor.

The door at the far end of the hallway was ajar, Barrat, could see the warm red glow off the fire, it warmed his pale face. He pushed the door and walked into the room. All the warmth that the fire had given him was sucked out of him. The old man sat in the corner, looked nothing like his uncle Gregory. His hair was thin and wispy, his skin was so thin you could almost tell the shape of his skull, and his eyes were like dark pits, they had no twinkle, no warmth to them. Barrat stood there staring, he could see the roaring fire in the hearth, he could see the bright orange flames, and the embers floating up the chimney breast, but he felt none of its warmth, it was as if the flames were made of ice. He shuddered.
"Uncle?" he said shakily "Uncle, are you ok?" the man in the corner grunted and raised his wrinkly face.
"Barrat, Barrat my boy. Is that you?" he sounded confused and bewildered.
"Yes, Uncle, it's me" answered Barrat hurriedly; he knelt down at his uncle's side, and stared into his dark eyes. Uncle Gregory raised his crippled hand, and touched it against his nephews face. Barrat felt the remaining trace of warmth leave him, it was as if he had been shot, everything just went cold.
'My dear boy" whispered his uncle. Though there was nothing even slightly endearing about his uncle's tone, it sounded as though it was hurting him to be kind. It felt like there was something cold in his voice. He shuddered again; Black.