I pull up to the house at the same time as the storm.

The thunder and lightning are the perfect accessories to the mansion.

It must be a couple hundred years old,

with paint peeling away like a rotting corpse,

revealing parched dead wood.

It's three floors tall.

The litany of windows are a multitude of alien eyes staring at me.

The front door is open, but instead of inviting, it makes me think of an open maw, like

the house is trying and failing to look innocent to trick its next meal into wandering in.

I step out of my car to the sound of thunder and the first splashes of rain.

By the time I sling my backpack over my shoulder,

it's a torrential downpour.

Running up the walkway, I nearly slip on the steps,

but catch myself just in time.

From the dark side of the porch comes a chuckle tinged with the heavy scent of marijuana.

Whoa, easy there, partner.

That first step is a doozy.

A flick of light in the shadows settles on the pitiful remains of a joint.

The owner rises from one of the rocking chairs

and steps into the lingering remains of daylight. He's taller than I am. His blonde hair is messed

up in a way that I can't tell is supposed to be stylish or accidental. He's older than me, close to 30.

Muscles bulge from the arms of his Hawaiian shirt, which is unbuttoned. or accidental. He's older than me, close to 30.

...