The last house which could be considered part of town fades out of my periphery. This means I’m almost there. The sun has set and dusk has begun. I shift my pack slightly and pick up my pace. I keep my eyes ahead, and then I see it. A lone house at the end of a curving drive. It emits no light. I quicken my pace even more even though I am not eager for what I will encounter. As I approach, I see the gate to the drive is open. I can see a freshly scrape on the pavement arcing where it was pushed open despite the sagging hinges. Dark trees hang low and dense and underbrush crowds the drive. I make my way along the drive and can hear unsettling scurrying in the encroaching forest.
“Just animals. It’s just animals.” I say to reassure myself.
I turn the last bend of the drive and the house reveals itself. It is a sprawling assembly of decades of additions and renovations. The brick work still impresses with interesting dark and light contrasts. There are enormous planters along the steps and patio, but the plants are withered and dead. Vines and bushes lean heavily against the windows which once produced magnificent views. The wind quickly picks up dead leaves and swirls them around in a messy leaf tornado, then dies off and drops them all just as fast. I am certain someone is in there, but they won’t be easy to find.
