Sue has given us a black and white photo to work with this week.
For visually challenged writers, the image shows an ornately half-timbered house, bowed by the weight of centuries.
The house was an icon and had stood for years in its own grounds.
It had no neighbours or boundaries, the lawns were kept immaculate and no self-respecting daisy or dandelion would dare show its face in the perfect green sea.
It was a house of laughter and gaiety, in the same family for at least ten generations, and big enough to house siblings and spouses, parents and grandchildren with aplomb.
Many said the reason it began to sag was because of the constant weight off kids running to and fro.
The dark panels grew black and ominous, a total contrast to the whitewashed walls which now seemed stark and virginal.
The grounds, no less immaculate, lost their hue, and the merriment once so apparent simply died, as did everyone inside that fateful night.
The Silent Killer they said. Carbon monoxide took them all as they slept, never to awaken.
Twenty three, ranging in age from eighty seven years to four months. An entire dynasty.
The house stands empty and forlorn, an iconic shell which no-one will touch.