The renovators have moved into the death-house. When I pass by in the mornings, builders lounge out from the windows. Rubbish is piled by the doorway. The Incredible Hulk voodoo figure has been removed from the ground floor window. There has been some accident with one of the panes of glass in the said window. Jagged and cracked, an irregular angle of night now tattooed tight onto the skin of this once abandoned building. This did mean I was able to gain the above photograph though. Stretching my arm in from front steps of next door. The interior of the room looks as dark and dismal as it promised to be. I wonder if the builders feel anything as they move from room to room, up and down the crumbling stairs, drifting through air unbreathed by anyone but ghosts for who knows how long? The ghost stories of labourers, white-van man horror.
I shall miss the death-house when it inevitably gets turned into another house of bedsits like this one. I shall have to seek out another abandoned and decaying house to satisfy my imagination.
At least the photograph is a remaining glimpse into the darkness.
Now the death-house is in the process of being exorcised, I wonder if any haunting might transfer itself to the photograph? Those old architectural silences locked now in cyberspace, a virtual ghost, an unquiet blogspot.
Another tale from bridge 39...
