Up the road from where I live, there is an old, abandoned house. It sits back from the road, with overgrown shrubs obscuring the windows, a sagging front porch, a rusty metal roof, and an unlocked bulkhead that leads to what surely is an unfinished basement with a dirt floor and perhaps a tight crawlspace. I know the bulkhead is unlocked because I tried it once. It squeaked open without resistance, revealing a descent into darkness. It was a descent I did not take.
The house, you see, is haunted.
Or, at least, some of the locals say it is. And I don’t doubt them. It’s flanked by mature woodlands that encroach closer and closer with each passing year. There are no nearby neighbors. Rarely have I heard the birds sing when I visit the property, as if even they, on an instinctual level, detect a sense of malice and…
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