There were long passageways, with flaking paintwork and inadequate lighting and it didn't need much imagination to visualise ghoolies and ghosties patrolling the house. Or... DI Sonny Russell's adversities plotting and planning against him.
Even spookier were the cellars. These passages were barely lit by overhead openings, made even dimmer by weed growth. Down here I could imagine smugglers, with blackened faces and calloused hands, rolling barrels of contraband brandy and carrying boxes of who knows what illicit substances to unknown destinations. Lots of fodder for a writers pen.