She came down the stairs, into the darkness of the foyer, holding her guttering candle before her. Around her, the shadows from the cheap chandler danced along the walls, stroking the painting of fruit with long, graceful fingers, like dark treetops brushing the sky. The aged, wooden stairs creaked, cold beneath her bare toes. A breeze drifted past her face, brushing past her face like invisible silk. Her candle fluttered. She held it higher, and looked around. She couldn't see the bottom of the stairs reach the grey-marbled floor; it looked almost as if the stairs disappeared into the floor, the marble a ledge that fell away. Her long white cotton nightgown, yellow from the light of the candle, felt loose around her shoulders. Taking another step, she brought the candle around to her left, bringing the picture of her late husband into it's flickering light. Suddenly, she gasped, almost dropping the candle.
...alrightly, someone else's turn now. First person to comment gets to continue the story. I'd suggest copying and pasting this, and continuing. Just don't change what's already been written.