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The sun shone brilliantly overhead, reflecting off the blankets of snow and through the dirty windows of the small, empty house. Dust floated around in the filtered sunlight. The rooms sat still and quiet, untouched by living souls for nearly two decades.
The townspeople whispered of the horrors that had happened in that house. A father had beat his children to death, and a mother had shot her husband and then herself. A daughter had been abused, and in retaliation killed both her parents but starved to death, trapped within the confines of her room. Each story was different, some more gruesome than the last, but each contained death, and ended with the family rotting in the house together.
No one dared get closer than the edge of the driveway.
Now, the house was silent. Alone amongst the snow-covered world, shivering in anticipation for someone to pass by and make the mistake to wander in. A single crow flew from the chimney and into the surrounding woods.
Just down the road, a curious teen, Lucy Hortons, walked through the crunching snow, her boots leaving footprints behind her. Following closely was Henry Anderson, one of her closest friends. He shivered in his coat, pale hands buried deep into the front pockets.
"Lucy, are you sure this is a good idea?" he called.
"Are you scared, Henry?" she asked, turning around and beginning to walk backwards. Her blue eyes glinted. They were the blue of a clear evening sky, the blue of the ocean in the Caribbean, the blue of tears falling thick down someone's face.
The boy shook his head, nose and cheeks red and hat pulled down to his eyebrows. "Why would I be scared? I'm just not sure this is a good idea in the middle of a snowstorm."
Lucy shook her head, pulling her hat farther down on her head. "You're ridiculous. A little bit of snow never hurt anyone."
The house loomed in the distance, covered with nearly double the snow as the roads, having been left untouched by all plows and shovels and salt. No one wanted to walk onto the property. Dead vines hung from the roof, the very bottom buried in the snow.
Henry stopped beside Lucy, joining her in the observation of the house.
"Which story do you believe?" His breath billowed from his mouth in puffs of smoke as he spoke.
"I'm not sure I believe any of them," she answered, knitting her brows.
"What do you mean?"
She sighed, watching the breath leave her mouth and float away in the wind. "I think someone is in that house, making the stories up to keep us away."
Almost as if on cue, a light flickered on and off from within one of the windows. Henry jumped in his spot, taking a step back.
"This is a terrible idea," he said, grabbing onto her arm.
