There used to be a painting hung on the wall that I’m pressing into right now. It was full of light, flicking off the corners, surrounding an angel with dark hair, her beauty pure apart from parted lips revealing a luscious red mouth and sharp black teeth, a blemish in her perfect face.

I remember that painting well from the time we snuck into this old house as kids. We smashed in the windows just to find out about the secret of Old Red.

Because outside this house looks perfect: blue wooden exteriors with white painted window frames. The neighbours always looked after the gardens like some old time community, but it was really only to keep house prices up. It was only when the shutters flew open in the wind that you saw the darkness inside: a blemish so hideous, it begged exploration.

So I find myself here again, drawn by memory and old unquenched curiosity to climb through the broken window of Old Red. The dark is still paralysing, but the fear more real as the shadows climb inside me, and Red becomes me.