• Front Yard

Everything seems grey and dreary; no plants are alive, no animal stirs, except for the crows and the small creatures that creep. The black metal gates are covered in old vines, old enough to be broken easily; the grass is brown and dead in every season, and the single maple tree there is bare. The house is dark brown wood, its sides looking like shingles and parts coming off. The windows were bricked up, the only way in is through the single, simple door that has a circular golden shining handle, always covered in dust despite the breezes. The platformed front porch is unusually cold and gives shivers, the three steps which lead up to it creak and sag. Who will enter and who will flee?