The Face in the Window

The house sat alone at the end of Sycamore Lane, surrounded by the skeletal remains of what once might have been a garden. Overgrown hedges clawed at the sides of the house, and twisted, leafless trees loomed in the front yard like gnarled sentinels. The locals called it the Havisham House, though no one could remember why. It had been abandoned for as long as anyone could recall, a relic of a forgotten past that nobody dared disturb.

Until now.