There were the expected neighborhood tales of hauntings…
There were the expected neighborhood tales of hauntings and murders and other grotesque goings-on, passed from inventive older child to naive, wide-eyed audiences. The occasional prank would be set up to coax or goad a child desperate to fit in or demonstrate a degree of courage that might elevate their status in the eyes of peers to near deific levels. Most of these were thwarted by the heavy—and heavily rusted—iron gates, the burly padlocks and the fortuitous decay patterns that had not quite rendered the wood brittle or soft enough to permit entry.
In truth, there had been no ominous occurrences, and the only deaths seen within the walls were that of several past generations of vectors who had slowly taken up permanent residence inside: The rats, pigeons, bats and raccoons who now called it home.
When it had been occupied, it was warm and open and full of cheerful laughter from the children, glowing within as a haven from the world around it which had, since the departure of the last caretaker forty years prior, slowly begun to creep inside, reclaiming the space back to the surrounding wilderness which once existed in that space before the carpenter’s nails and architect’s dreams invaded.
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