The old structure was standing
silently. Obviously, it was a two-story house, with a
pointed roof, but it was believed to be empty. None of
the townspeople thought it could be inhabited, because
all could see that the house was dilapidated. Every
window was broken, every door was hanging by merely one
hinge, and the gaps in the wooden boards let the sunlight
through, as the grin of an old man missing several
teeth.
From the street, the gauntlet to the
front door was an adventure which was hidden in the dares
of the town's children. The tangled masses of vines and
thorn bushes would rip through even the toughest jeans,
and leave the intruder bleeding on the obscured cement
path. Pieces of glass would crunch underfoot, piercing
rugged boots of all who attempted to pass. But, if a
brave soul made the desperate run to the front porch
safely, he would find the passage that presented itself
to be quite a contrast.
The front door's lock and latch were
broken! The front door flapped in the brisk breeze, like
the last autumn leaves that clung desperately to the bare
bones of nearby oak trees.
Once inside, the perpetrator found
himself in a narrow hallway, dark and dank, lined with
pictures that told of past inhabitants. The faces were
not those of happy individuals. They were solemn and
morbid. One frame was hanging askew, the glass broken,
the photograph missing. Those people must have led
miserable lives. The energy left behind seemed to ooze
from the cracks in the walls of the old house. What kind
of people had lived here? What made them leave? Why had
no one else ever moved in?
These unanswerable questions made me
feel lonely, as if I were the missing picture from that
empty frame.
