The wind was whistling around the house and through the little cracks and loose window panes. A spider hung mornfully in its web in the corner of the  little sitting room keeping an eye on the crackling fire in the fireplace and an eye on the cat asleep on the tatty blue rug in front of it; the cat had made a play for the spider more than once but was slow and old and unsuccessful.

Imogen picked up her empty cracked tea cup and gathering her old crochet blanket closer around herself, she went through the bare wooden dining room and into the tiny leaky kitchen. Rain water was trickling down the inside of the right side of the window over the large cracked porcelain sink and into the plants growing wildly on the window sill. The tap groaned out some spluttering water to rinse the cup and she set it down on the side. A huge gust of wind suddenly embraced the house aggresively, rattling the very walls, attacking the roof, the windows, the doors with its harsh rasping breath. Imogen shuddered and hurried back to the sitting room, the fire and the spider.

Images from here