It's taken 40s since I started watching it.

The house, as far as I'm aware, was built sometime in the 40s.

The man of the house went on to die in Korea, and the woman eventually died from cancer.

A lack of a clear air and condemnation from a city due to some sort of mold left it in limbo.

It sat in that tiny dying lot sandwiched between two unhappy homes ever since.

It's a story that's passed around the neighborhood when I was a kid.

You'd think at first glance that it must radiate some poison antithetical to life,

owing to it the forever dead yard and rotted out tree barely holding up its melting tire swing.

It's only upon further investigation that you notice all sorts of life,

ant beds, spider webs, graffiti, and of course the people that become drawn to its decayed old door.

They wander in, whether out of curiosity or some other mental sickness, and then once the front door shuts, they're as good as dead.

I know this to be true.

It happened to my older brother.

Back when I was in middle school

and he was just entering high school,

something changed about him when he started there.

He had always been such a fun and cheerful person,

intelligent, almost wise for his age.

Until his dreams started.

He detailed to me these vivid, awful dreams with sparse, confusing details.

A pink woman, a red light, a stream of frothing dull water. It didn't make sense to me,

and frankly, as a kid, I didn't necessarily care much. I know that he started to stop outside

...