Admit it. There’s something in the core of our being that is drawn to abandoned houses, dilapidated mills, and old barns. At least it was for my brothers and me. As kids, we’d ride our bikes through narrow, wooded country roads searching for a deserted house. One sunny afternoon, we hit the jackpot!
Even now I can see it sitting far off the road, Its sagging roof nearly hidden by trees, vines, and tall weeds. Even in the sunlight, the house appeared dark and sinister, its broken windows, like hollow eyes, glaring intently. In spite of the overwhelming feeling that we shouldn’t be here, the sound of stones hitting the house, and a radio playing upstairs, we climbed the rotting steps and slowly opened the creaky door. Suddenly, crows cawed overhead, as if warning us to turn around and run for our lives. Of course, that was all part of the thrill, our minds seeing and hearing things that weren’t really there . . . or were they?
