Upon arriving, you would stand just before the festering boards, the rusty irons barring the windows, and think to yourself ‘surely one must be mad to live here’.
You would be right, you would be quite right, indeed.
The bars surrounded that courtyard also crossed the windows, the cold metal made it as though you were to be locked up in this dismal estate, never to escape.
The brewery was empty and dull, the pigeon house was empty and crooked, the garden was empty and trampled, the animals were empty from their housings. But the house was not empty, no matter how much it looked to be.
The large estate would seem to loom over you, or leer at you from the cracks in the windows, or stand to intimidate you for no other purpose than its own satisfaction.
You would be frightened by the decrepit appearance and uninviting demeanor of the household, but you would enter the fading halls within so that you may join your hostess, despite your terror. Or perhaps terror is too loud a word, for you would not shake in fright, nor would your heart pound to be heard over the rush of wind; no, a great unease would settle over you as you moved across the lawn, prickling the hairs at the back of your neck and whispering unpleasant nothings in your ear. It would follow you through the dark hallways of the broken manor, flitting in the shadows cast by the single candle that would guide your way.
this was orginally meant to be the Havisham's house from great expectation