The Stags Head Barometer at the Foot of the Stairs

My grandparents house, Stanklyn Lane in Stone.
There used to be a barometer at the foot of the stairs, above the front door. It never worked, not as far as I remember. The needle seemed to always point towards 'stormy'. It was made out of dark wood, or plastic. The dial was set on some kind of backing, and above the dial there was a miniature stags head ornament. Tiny twigs of the branch-like antlers, beady black eyes.
I never used to think about the stags head barometer going up the stairs, because I could never see it, but when I was coming down those dark and narrow stairs, there it would be, seemingly staring at me in its sightless way. Perhaps I would try to jump from the third or fourth step of the stairs, trying to touch it with my fingers. I don't think I ever succeeded. Too high up, too small as a child. I remember a nightmare I had about those stairs once, of being trapped halfway up (or halfway down) and the terrifying sound of a woman's voice, singing. I don't ever remember dreaming about that slightly spooky barometer though.
I suppose the barometer was there throughout the whole of my childhood, was probably only removed when my parents sold the house after my grandfather died. I wonder where it is now, if anywhere? When I think about that barometer, it makes me think of long afternoons under darkening clouds, red Worcestershire earth, and the sound of traffic in the distance. An oddly comforting drifty-dreamy sound, like the sea.
I imagine the barometer measuring other things aside from atmospheric pressure, though I'm not sure what. Odd, almost abstract concepts like the sleepiness of the fields behind my grandparents house perhaps, or the depth of paths through the woods my Mum would play in when she was a kid, a short distance away. Perhaps the tide-like sway of poplars, trees that always seem to be on the horizon, like some desert mirage. Watching them at night from the small bedroom I shared with my sister where I once thought I saw a ghost.
In Stanklyn Lane, a miniature moon hangs over still days, the barometer measuring strange fragments of childhood and memory; Salad cream Sundays, Arthur Ash round for Sunday dinner, Songs of Praise, watching the rain on the pavement from the living room window, wanting to play and waiting endlessly for the rain to cease.
I caught a glimpse of the house when I went back with Em last May. Halfway up the gravel of the drive, and there was a white van in the front garden, and the windows were different, and it didn't seem like my grandparents house anymore, so we turned back, walked up the hill and ate lunch in the churchyard where they are buried instead.