IN THE GRAVE HOUSE
There is a house in the middle of the woods
The house should have been visible from much farther away. Up close the crowns of the trees would have covered its top, but just a mile ahead its spindly towers and spiked roof tops would have towered well above the thicket of the forest. Instead it stumbles the brambles onto a crumbling, overgrown road, and further along to the abandoned house. It is a modern sort of castle, all small black brick, dark shindels, sharp edges and fine four-pane windows. Really more like a mansion sculpted after the impressions of a castle—one sighted on a trip to the wild shores of overseas, made real in a dream and now overgrown with moss and ivy.
The path through what once must have been a lush garden, is filled with brambles, thick thorns. The trees bend at odd angles, warped in ways you have never seen before. It seems like they are turning around themselves, sharp edges where there shouldn’t be. The thicket wraps around your legs, playfully tugging at your ankles.
Your shoes make no sound when they hit the stone path. There are no sounds besides the pitter-patter of the rain.
The remnants of a glassern greenhouse peeks shyly from behind the structure.