I stared at the glowing embers in disbelief. Firefighters had battled the flames for three hours, as if all the water in the world could not conquer the engulfing flames that had once been a stately mansion, the epitome of Michigan Village.

The crowd was thick and packed with people of all colours and builds. Black, white, yellow… the entire area was compressed like sardines in a can. Men, women and children watched as the fire trucks, bright red like fire, lights flashing, jumped to a halt. It was like trying to besiege a fortress with strong defence. The smell of burnt offerings would have pleased a pagan god beyond measure.

Michigan Manor was a towering building, with oak panel doors, French windows and solid wood floors. The lawns stretched as far as the Sahara Desert, lush green and well-watered. Figurines dotted the entire landscape. A well-paved driveway, complete with the most royal botanical treats, helped to form a house that many of us dreamed of having.

Before now.

The trees were scorched, figurines blackened as if soaked in soot. Pillars, like tall, dark mountains, stood sorrowfully, as if to lament the demise of the abode. Culinary items could be seen sticking out of the ashes, and the lawn appeared to have been hit by a fireball from the heavens. The garden was massacred.

As the large, flamboyant, black Rolls Royce drove up at a speed faster than Usain Bolt, people cringed. Some, who knew the pallor, frail, old, miserly man knew what would happen next.

All investigations carried out as which uncouth roughneck had been fool-hardy enough to commit arson were in vain. The culprit was never captured, and the plot of land abandoned. Maybe the rich owner went to become a hermit, since the Rolls Royce was found along the vast highway.

And for days to come, I will always remember:

The Fire of Michigan Manor