Seek me out in the strange house, seek me out below the edge, where the stairs take you straight down beyond the lip of the cliff.
We are not the strangest house. You can see that abode from mine. I sup there every fifth Sunday- on those days seek me there.
It is out to sea, the strangest house, tall and thin and built upon a rock, a light shining and spinning from its top every night. Inside it is mostly stairs that go up.
I am told this is not unusual but I find it strange all the same.
We are not the strangest house. You can see that abode from mine. I sup there every fifth Sunday- on those days seek me there.
It is out to sea, the strangest house, tall and thin and built upon a rock, a light shining and spinning from its top every night. Inside it is mostly stairs that go up.
I am told this is not unusual but I find it strange all the same.
Written for Friday Fictioneers from the following picture prompt:
Copyright-Björn Rudberg
