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The old house sat at the end of Maple Street, its porch sagging like a tired spine, and the paint peeling in long, pale strips that curled at the edges as if the walls were shedding their skin. Every window was dark except for the one in the attic, where a single bulb burned with a sickly yellow glow, and the glass was so grimy that the light looked like a drowning star. The front steps were cracked, with weeds pushing through the fissures, and the iron railing was rusted to the point where it flaked off at the slightest touch, leaving orange dust on your fingers. The mailbox hung at a crooked angle, its door hanging open, and inside you could see a few dead leaves and a crumpled envelope that had been there so long the ink had faded to a ghost of a name. The house had been vacant for eleven years, ever since the old woman who lived there had been taken away in the middle of the night, and the neighbors had their stories, each one darker than the last. Some said she had been a witch, others said she had just been mad, but everyone agreed that the house itself was wrong, that it seemed to breathe, that the floorboards groaned even when nothing walked on them, and that the air around it was always colder than the rest of the block. The children dared each other to run up and touch the door, but none ever went inside, not even on a dare, because the windows seemed to watch you, and the chimney sometimes emitted a thin wisp of smoke even though there was no fire, and the garden, once a tangle of roses and ivy, had grown into a wild, thorny mass that reached toward the street like grasping fingers. The porch swing hung from a single chain, swaying slightly in the wind even when there was no wind, and the boards beneath it were stained with something dark that had never washed away, no matter how many rains fell. The door itself was a heavy oak thing, studded with iron nails, and the knob was a brass lion’s head that had tarnished to a sickly green, and when you put your hand on it, you could feel a faint vibration, as if something on the other side was humming a tune you almost recognized. The steps were worn in the middle, hollowed out by decades of feet, and the left side had a crack that ran all the way to the foundation, and if you knelt down and peered into it, you could see darkness that seemed to go down forever, and sometimes you thought you saw a pair of eyes looking back. The gutters were clogged with leaves and twigs, and during a storm the water would pour over the edges in brown waterfalls, soaking the siding, which had blistered and warped so that it looked like the skin of an old animal. 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The front door had a small, round window at eye level, and the glass was frosted, but there was a spot in the corner where the frost had been rubbed away, and if you stood close enough, you could see a sliver of the hallway inside, and it was always dark, but sometimes you thought you saw a flicker of movement, a shadow that slid across the floor without a source. The porch ceiling was painted a pale blue, the traditional color to keep away spirits, but the paint had faded and cracked, and the blue was now a patchy, dirty gray, and in some places the wood was bare, and you could see the grain had warped into shapes that looked like faces. The steps creaked even when you stepped on them gently, and the sound was a long, low groan that seemed to come from deep within the earth, and it made your teeth ache, and you could never tell if it was the wood or something else. The mailbox had a name on it, but the letters were so faded that you could only make out an ‘E’ and a ‘W’, and the rest was a blur of rust, and if you tried to open the box, the hinge would stick, and you’d have to pull hard, and when it opened, a cold breath would escape, even in the middle of summer, and there would be nothing inside but dust and a single, dried-up moth. The garden was a chaos of brambles and nettles, with a few pale flowers that bloomed out of season, their petals a sickly white like the underside of a dead fish, and the stems were covered in tiny thorns that left red welts on your skin if you brushed against them. There was a stone path leading to the door, but the stones were uneven and some were missing, and the ones that remained were covered in a green slime that made them treacherous to walk on, and in the gaps between them, you could see things moving, small, dark things that scurried away when you looked directly at them. 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The porch light, when it was on, cast a sickly yellow glow that attracted moths and beetles, and they would flutter against the glass, their wings making a dry, rattling sound, and then they would fall to the porch floor, dead, and their bodies would accumulate in a little pile that no one ever swept away.

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