There was a house at the end of the road, or at least, I remember it that way. I must have been ten, maybe eleven, when I found it. A strange, quiet evening—no wind, no birds, just the hum of crickets in the tall grass.
I don’t know why I walked that way. It wasn’t my usual path home. But there it was: a small, weathered house with a porch swing that creaked though there was no wind. The door was slightly open, and golden light spilled onto the steps.
I should have been scared. I wasn’t....