wallpaper, mouldy skirting boards and decades of old filth. Lovely. On a more positive note, they also feature some rather ornate architraves and ceiling roses that once looked very grand, I’m sure. I venture slowly down the hallway towards my brother, and what’s left of the kitchen. As I do, I notice a doorway under the staircase and steps leading down into the darkness below, to what I can only assume is Stephen King’s basement. Suppressing a shudder, I enter the kitchen and walk over to where Danny is sat on a rickety chair, nursing his ankle. ‘Are you alright?’
