Oh my god, boys, will you just stop?

After a few more miles down the road, we turned into a narrow driveway.

Woffled squeals sound from the trunk, with every bump and pothole that riddles the driveway

as we drive towards the house.

The gut-wrenching feeling of doom intensifies as the house comes in a clear view.

Vines, weeds, and shrubbery consumes the porch entrance.

Years, if not decades of neglect and miscarry, scream in our faces.

At one point, I'm sure this was a beautiful home.

But the state is in now, it tells me nothing good can possibly take place inside.

A fungal-colored algae covers the roof shingles and shutters.

The attic windows have been shattered.

The glass left behind, resembling an angry maw in the broken frame.

Wouldn't patio furniture lay discarded in pieces around the front porch reeling, and

the lower-level windows have been bordered up.

Despite the depressing state of the surroundings, a crisp welcome mat sits in front of the

frayed, front door.

The red-haired woman gestures for me to go in first, as we leave our respective sides

of the car.

As I turn back to question her, I see her pull a vial and syringe out of her purse.

She draws the plunger back half way, then pushes her thumb down.

The yellow liquid spurts out of the end as she primes the syringe.

Keep moving, Hank.

...