The House of F

The house appeared abandoned. It was spacious, boasting of what looked to be a dozen rooms, but falling apart. Broad windows, glass gray with dust. An iron plate set into the brick walls proclaimed the house as belonging to F. The massive front door was broken in the middle, caved in, giving the house a jagged, toothy, smile. In my youth, I'd have imagined the site in countless horror scenarios: ritual human sacrifices, hauntings by malevolent ghosts, perhaps some sort of cannibal thing that had once been human. As it was, I was prepared to call the house, home.

Not wanting to brave the door or break one of my own windows, I circled around. Stepping carefully. I waded though the waist high overgrowth and much to my surprise found the back of the house was a series of unfinished walls, bare timbers, and tattered cloth. Beyond, I could see that many rooms and hallways were finished, as were the narrow stairs. I wondered how a house such as this could come to be.

Tomorrow I would begin the work of repair.