The path to the doorway of this bloghouse is not spooky. A far cry from the suggestive decrepitude of popular Halloween, this house is scary.
The gravel path is replaced with a walkway of fractured glass and it glints invitingly at the pioneer before the wrought iron gate. On either side of the path, dark weeds knot together in vaguely noose-like bows, especially thick and tight over the several isolated mounds, rising from the lawn like the remnants of a serpent’s particularly large lunch. An ancient oak dominates the left corner of the front yard, one heavy branch weighing on the eaves of the house while others push back on the wooden, leaning fence. Most of the veranda is hidden in thick shadow underneath the tree, and from time to time parts of the shadow seem to ripple, as if with activity.
With the shape of the iron bar still frozen to his hand, the brave, young adventurer swings wide the heavy gate, skips over the naked glass and jumps onto the first wooden step. It shifts, and almost falling onto the cheerfully sparkling edges behind, he instead lunges forward, knocking his head quite hard on the door, and sinks his finger into the exposed wiring of a long-re-appropriated doorbell.
The door is opened by a lank, forgettable woman dressed in black and brown strokes, who peers through dark, rheumy eyes, “Come in, have a cup of tea. Let me tell you where you’re going wrong…”
You’re not going to like trying to trick me.