The Adventure - Interlogue

I suppose I should describe my great aunt’s cottage, for it will give you an idea of the quaintness of Laurel Grove. The door in the pebble-dashed face of the cottage is made of thick, planked oak, rounded at the top like the wedge of a lemon. It is painted red and has iron hinges shaped like arrowheads – a sturdy door, indeed. There’s a picture window in the front that holds deep window boxes, but no begonias bloomed there on the day my father and I went to clear it out for the sale. Just some tangled thistle weed. The roof is thatched, like so many troll houses of its day, and the eaves hang low, giving the little house a crouching frown.
            The cottage puzzled me. It seemed to be the stage set for either a fairy tale or a nightmare. So often, however, those are one in the same.
            The hinges were rusting, and they complained as I pushed open the door. I laughed, thinking I wouldn’t have to go far before I found my auntie’s grimoire and cauldron. 
            I expected cobwebs, perishing damp and the smell of neglect. Therefore I was surprised to see the remnants of a fire that must have recently burned in the grate.
            The sitting room was not only dry and warm, but smartly tidied, too. I noticed a comfy-looking club chair by the fireplace, and a wing-backed chair opposite. I don’t know why I did this, but I pressed my hand in the seat of the chair’s upholstery. I felt a lingering warmth.
            I started at my father’s voice behind me:
            “Has someone been keeping an eye on the place?”