The Old Boathouse

Rain tapped on the roof of the little boathouse. Evie eased open its swollen blue door, which groaned on rusty hinges. Inside, a narrow beam of sunlight stretched across the dusty floor. Coils of rope lay in untidy heaps beside a cracked wooden oar. The air smelled of salt and damp timber. Outside, the restless sea slapped against the harbour wall, sending silver drops skittering over the stones. Evie spotted a brass compass on a shelf. Its glass was clouded, but its needle trembled towards the dark corner of the room. A shiver ran down her back. She reached for the compass, curious to discover what it might lead her to.

Finding descriptive language

Thinking about the writer’s choices