Louise Millard's Descriptive Essay: The Haunted House

The front door opened slowly, letting out the same creaking sound that seemed to never stop reverberating through the house. The same heavy footsteps pounded in the foyer; a sigh escaped from Louise Millard’s lips, knowing she’d have to clean up the stains her husband’s filthy shoes left on the carpet, despite her repeatedly telling him not to wear his shoes in the house. Brently Mallard had never been very good at listening to her anyway. She was standing in the kitchen when he slammed the front door shut, shaking the family pictures that hung on the walls of the hallway. He stepped into the kitchen the same way he always did-- immediately sitting down at the table without washing up first, grunting audibly if a plate wasn’t already waiting