Descriptive Essay: Anna Warick's Home

Imagine a woman with powdery, permed hair who smells of hairspray and flowery potpourri. She is an 87-year-old mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother who has found a new home at a retirement facility after her husband of 56 years passed away, but now that home is being taken from her. In its 48 years, Oaknoll, a retirement home and care facility located in Iowa City, has been a home for hundreds of residents. As a nonprofit organization, Oaknoll has little to offer the city financially. It does not pay property taxes and sits upon prime property along bustling Benton and Oakcrest streets. With the closing of Oaknoll, Iowa City plans to sell the land, potentially valued at over three million dollars, to private owners for the construction

What was once a beautiful but small lawn with grass is now a patch of dead grass with dirt exposing itself under the grass. What was once the creaky barn doors are completely destroyed, with broken glass on the ground on the outside, leading to the inside. What was once the living room where I had spent so much time watching television and playing games with my siblings, now has its carpet completely torn up, walls indented, and closet in complete shambles with light gleaming sharply through the holes of the closet from holes that were made by vandals who never knew the true value of the humble abode that I used to reside in. My old home, since being lived in by me and my family has since been abandoned by the family that we had entrusted the house to previously. Now the house just stays there, an eerie empty shell of what it used to be. A place where I was safe and happy, now a dark and scary place that no one deserves to live in, a place that humans have indeed used well, so well that there is nothing left of what it used to be. That image of the house was the last I saw it, back in 2010, It is possible now that the house had since been destroyed, with the memories that have been carved into the walls, fireplace, windows, closets, and bedrooms, are now nothing more but a blur of destroyed objects that will one day be removed, as people pass by the home that once was will never be able to see its clarity, but instead will only be able to see the blur of colors protruding from the exterior of the house, or perhaps the brown of the barn like doors, or the patches of green still rising from the dead grass that surrounds it, until eventually, it simply disappears completely invisible to the city that used it ever so

Have you been looking for a new house that will make you feel the worst you’ve ever felt before. You’re in for a treat if you stay at 647 Blood Ave.. As you wander around the house there is torn down walls and broken windows. As you sleep through the night wind washes upon your body and chills rush through from head to toe. Vines crawl and wrap around the house even broken windows and torn down walls are covered. It holds the house tightly, do not cut a vine, or it’ll be like you just disappeared . Interested yet?..., I’ll tell you there’s more to come. As you follow your way to the back there is an old abandoned barn. There use to be cows and chickens that would run the grounds of 647 Blood Ave. Now there dismembered corpse are what scatters

If this story had been told from a first person point of view, the reader my not have gotten this in depth of a description of the setting. Without the reader understanding that the house was boarded up and abandoned, to the point where it seems

That's when it hit her, what was written in the paperwork from the previous owner. She read about the footsteps, the whispers and the horrible smell, but, the most frightening thing that she read was this:

Behind the door was the staircase leading towards a dark basement. At the bottom of the stairs, the walls and newspaper clippings of fires created by Roach, shelves lined with stuffed dogs, cats, rats and various other animal corpses. There was a desk covered in random papers and a door with a cut out hole that looked to be there for feeding a captive victim. Luckily there was no one

Sweat dripped from forehead, I gasped for air as I panted. I beamed as my "home" came into view. Watching carefully for any sign of danger, I jogged toward the warehouse. The warehouse was abandoned years ago. It contains holes on the wall from termites, dents on the already descended wall, dusty-cracked floors, and small animals i'm sure scientists hasn't 'discovered' yet.

At the front gate, there were weeds all over what used to be a garden. The door suddenly swung on its creaky hinges. Pitch black. You couldn’t see a thing in the cabin. Every couple of minutes shingles would fall off the roof. I was scared. Terrified. Then I heard creaking floorboards.

As we entered there were no lights and so many cob webs down the stairs it seemed like no one has been down there in years. While I and James were exploring we notice on the floor a red stain but we couldn’t tell what it was. We then head towards what seem to be a work bench with different types of tools on it we were looking at them and then notice a journal on the ground underneath the bench. It had a black cover on it and had no name I looked at the date and it was 1928 property of Joe.

Looking through the glass, a car zoomed past the fifteen miles per hour speed limit blasting obnoxiously loud music and laughter. The rusty blue mailbox with the dent in front was still there next to the barren oak tree. Repetitive banging started nearby and I almost fell back. Bright yellow lights were on at the attic window at the house next door. This would usually start about two to three in the morning, but by then, I would usually fall asleep. This was strange considering that the neighborhood considered that house to be vacant. It was assumed that the person who bought the house was using the house as a vacation rental house since every week, a family group or couple would move in with their suitcases and leave at the end of the week. A strange banana yellow car was parked at the front of the house next door. Maybe the owner had come to make repairs? But the question remained as to why they would make repairs in the middle of the

The enormous metal doors slam to the ground with a tyrannosaurus-like screech, as the automated “Garage door closed” echoes from the alarm system. The carpeted floors harbor no sign of tire tracks or oil stains, but rather the indentations from the last movement of furniture. From the rack of shoes lining the right wall to the enormous bookshelf and desk that encompass the left corner: piles of footwear, including the ragged sandals that my grandmother left as a “souvenir” from India, to the assemblage of eccentric notes and intricate drawings from last night's homework, no room in our house shows greater diversity. The garage, interestingly enough, is not the home of my family’s

Rustling through the clustered garage, seeking to find the abounding green and red tubs of decor, the smell of dust and cobwebs collected hit my nose. Spirited tubs and boxes piled high in rows engulf a forth of the dull, tired garage. When finally completing the laborious journey through the maze of lawn supplies and old kitchen appliances,

some other junk were rotting to his left, vines from the outside had left the interior wall and a nearby cabinet with multiple holes that exposed the wooden supports and left a green hue of color. The floor had holes that showed the inner piping, some of the holes went all the way through to the first floor. The floor squeaked and creaked with every step as Marcus tries to sneak around. As he looked at the other rooms he saw some light coming from the master bedroom along with a silhouette of a person. He readied his knife and sneaked into the master bedroom, as he entered he didn’t see the man anymore he only saw an old bed with a moldy mattress, another makeshift fire pit, a closet to the side, and a desk with a cracked mirror above it.

The house was atop a small old hill. Surrounding the house was a once neatly kept metal fence, now all rusted and covered in overgrown foliage. An old worn gravel pathway lead straight to the door. Weather had taken its toll on the house. The bricks were worn and faded from their original color of red. The door was barely hanging onto its hinges, and the windows were cracked and broken.

The house had lived through the time of smoke and soot. Every year which passed over the city crept, when dying, into this house, until at last the house was a cemetery filled with dead years.