To say that Podunk House stood was a generous description. To say that it was held together by overgrown ivy and spite was far more apt, given that the chimney was scarcely visible at summer's peak and stuck out among the withered vines like a dislocated arm when winter came.
Much as the ivy thrived, the rest of the gardens and indeed the fields around the house were barren as if the land had been poisoned. While it wasn't overly far from the truth, it sounded more believable to the local folk (as such material ideas are).
They gathered in the Magpie's Eye tavern a few miles south and prayed the wind kept its northern flow. Though they cursed the chill of it, anything was more welcome than the foetid stench that oozed from the air around Podunk House.
People reckoned the old plague pits had smelled better, and the elders were inclined to agree. It was an old memory of theirs but a memory nonetheless, much like the memory of the old house being built. They had all walked nearby during its construction yet never seen the makers.
After a few too many drinks, some wondered aloud if the house had simply formed itself from the ground and waited for inhabitants. They were promptly silenced and sent home - the mere thought of setting foot inside there was enough to drain all the forced cheer away to a worried susurration.
The house may have held the local's interest, as a deadly spider in one's room might, but not once had any of them been any closer than the far edge of its dead fields. Not one of them had peered into the windows to see if a face peered back or if there had ever been occupants.
If they had, they might have seen that the house had always been inhabited and that they were all watched from the cracks in the walls, tucked away beneath the ivy. They see their estate with too many eyes and too few mouths for any human family to possess.
A few passersby have made eye contact with the dwellers of Podunk House, whether they suspect so or not. It strikes them without warning and seemingly without source, the damp chill that settles about them, sinking deep into their lungs and drawing blood from their breath.
Much as the ivy thrived, the rest of the gardens and indeed the fields around the house were barren as if the land had been poisoned. While it wasn't overly far from the truth, it sounded more believable to the local folk (as such material ideas are).
They gathered in the Magpie's Eye tavern a few miles south and prayed the wind kept its northern flow. Though they cursed the chill of it, anything was more welcome than the foetid stench that oozed from the air around Podunk House.
People reckoned the old plague pits had smelled better, and the elders were inclined to agree. It was an old memory of theirs but a memory nonetheless, much like the memory of the old house being built. They had all walked nearby during its construction yet never seen the makers.
After a few too many drinks, some wondered aloud if the house had simply formed itself from the ground and waited for inhabitants. They were promptly silenced and sent home - the mere thought of setting foot inside there was enough to drain all the forced cheer away to a worried susurration.
The house may have held the local's interest, as a deadly spider in one's room might, but not once had any of them been any closer than the far edge of its dead fields. Not one of them had peered into the windows to see if a face peered back or if there had ever been occupants.
If they had, they might have seen that the house had always been inhabited and that they were all watched from the cracks in the walls, tucked away beneath the ivy. They see their estate with too many eyes and too few mouths for any human family to possess.
A few passersby have made eye contact with the dwellers of Podunk House, whether they suspect so or not. It strikes them without warning and seemingly without source, the damp chill that settles about them, sinking deep into their lungs and drawing blood from their breath.
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