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Suddenly I was startled by a hoarse shout that froze me immobile. It was her, dressed in a dark-printed blouse covered with queer patterns that flowed down her over-ample bosom, straining at the end of the porch and glaring me through with those small, close-set eyes that never seemed to blink.

In the only exception I can remember (except maybe during the eclipse of ‘71 when she went as far as the roadside), Widow Wakely shuffled down through knee high grass to stand before me, hands fisted as her side, plump wrinkly skin the color of prunes. She proceeded to warn me never to try and enter that building without further elucidation. Saying that if I did, she could never forgive me for the consequences. A glance at the aged and rusty, yet still sturdy looking padlock on the front, seemed to punctuate her point nicely as she pulled her lips down, and tightly across her gums in a horrible skull-like grimace and told me to go. Ever since that day, with its cold wind and low, black-bellied clouds pressing down on the ridge like a portent of things to come, I was both frightened and drawn by the odd little building behind the main house.

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