As the overgrowth died back in winters cold arms, we started to notice how flesh-like the walls had become. The whole side of our house seemed to shiver, goosebumps spreading across the poor thing until the entire building gently shuddered with every gust that seemed to steal all the warmth from the pipes and even dim the fire.
My dad's always been the practical sort - moving us out as soon as we had a new place lined up, leaving our old home to freeze itself to death. He may have told us to "never go near the damn cursed thing again" but me and my sisters went to visit it every single day.
We even brought blankets, slowly stitching enough to drape over the roof and cover the entire house, save for its little chimney that soon started happily puffing away. We'd duck under our gigantic blanket and huddle next to it, giggling to each other and eventually deciding to name it Drei - it was number 3 Larchstride Street and it was now our friend.
When spring came and we noticed it beginning to sweat we climbed the tree again and removed the blanket, letting the sunlight hit it for the first time in months and nearly falling off as it wriggled in place before opening all the windows and doors in a sigh.
We went home that day happier than ever, never telling our parents why. The next day the news claimed that someone had destroyed number 2 Larchstride Street, killing everyone inside and leaving huge dents in the ground leading out to the forest like dozens of rocks had been thrown.
The space where Drei had been was not an empty hole.
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