Not My House

“I don’t want to go in there,” said the small boy. No one heard him. The crossroads of the paths was empty save him alone. Trees stretched menacingly toward the sky but let tendril branches and limbs reach back down for the boy. The boy, tucking his composition notebook under his arm, eyed the house with squinting eyes.
The house was large and made of heavy stones. The steeple on top bore no cross, for this was not a holy place. The arched windows in such abundance seemed to stare back at the boy’s inspection. A sea of dark clouds crept in overhead, brought in by an ill wind off a cold sea.
Somewhere a crow announced his presence loudly. As far as the boy knew that could be the only other living thing for miles in any direction. That fact was not comforting at this point, not that it’s ever a cheery thought.
“I’m not going in there,” the boy announced, though if he were speaking to the crow or the clouds one couldn’t really say. Nonetheless his feet were moving, bringing him closer to the house.

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