The house was right where it should be and hardly stood out at all.

It was built exactly the same as the rest, made of red brick in a single story with the basement

and based on the window just above the foyer, an attic not quite tall enough to standing.

Better get inside, said Alan Wickett from beside me.

He's tall slender frame against the sunset in the middle of December blended in well enough for the silhouettes of barren trees and the spindly branches.

Best not to keep it waiting.

It, I thought to myself, not he.

I wasn't sure what to think.

I can tell you right now that no matter what I had in my mind,

my train of thoughts would have derailed hard into a brick wall when the door opened.

The smell of rot wafted out and stabbed at my olfactory sense with prejudice, a sign perhaps

of things to come.

Alan stepped in first, his grey suit pants a bit too long and now stained with mud, left a pair

of tracks on the tile floor covered in foot pads and rugs. The kitchen was where it really hit me.

So this is where you'll be spending the night. I'd apologize, but everyone has to do it at least once.

You're familiar with the ground rules?

Alan's beady eyes examined me closely, followed every strand of hair and every beat of sweat

as I looked at my partner for the evening.

Situated at one end at the dinner table. as I looked to my partner for the evening.

Situated at one end at the dinner table was a boy illuminated by the soft orange

glow of a cast iron stove.

He couldn't have been older than eight or nine years, and he was very much dead.

...