the walls and the floor. The door was wide open and without really thinking about it, he stepped  on the sofa and a wood fire burning your eyes; a tiny kitchen with blue cups, plates and a rusty cooker; a table that was set for two with cups of tea waiting for you steaming; and a plate of toasted bread ready It was a pretty, wooden cottage with flowers in the garden and Sunflowers growing down against to be devour

“Hello,’ called Tom, wondering if anyone else was there. But he was met by silence. He made his out of the door to a landing. There was no one in either room though the chairs were made up with colourful chips of wood and soft pillows. For a moment, he wondered if he had stepped straight into the story of the three pigs.

He had thrown into his painting a wish and it didn’t seem as if that was going to come true. There were no signs that anyone lived there. He had never met his Dad but he was certain that he was not inside. It didn’t feel right. Then he heard it.

Something upstairs; something moving and it wasn’t exactly using feet. It was a strange creaking sound accompanied by a low squeak. He stared up the stairs, plucked up courage and descended step-by-step, trying to keep dead silent to not attract attention. He paused in fear and peered round the wall into the kitchen. Nothing moved. Only the steam from the teapot still drifted in the air.