Chapter Text
There is a HOUSE on Neibolt Street.
It sits there, hunched and listing, plank on plank on crumbling brick and mortar. The weeds in the garden are wilting; the gravel path stretches out like a tongue from an open maw. Every window is dust-caked and grimy. All of it is holding its breath.
No-one has lived in the HOUSE for a very long time.
Perhaps it looked more like a home once. Perhaps the paint had been more white than gray, more plain than peeling; perhaps the doorbell had chimed bright and cheerful. Perhaps people have lived in it, carving out their little spaces as if by a knife. Perhaps someone had once walked its halls, laughing.
The HOUSE was hungry even then.
Now it is starving.
