“Where are we, what town?” My best friend of fifteen years says.
“Not sure but it’s my great uncles house, well, my house I think.”
Strolling, my eyes glance at the rotting oak tree in the front yard. Then they wander to the dingy white door, the paint peeling, the first sign of zero upkeep.
“What happened to him anyway,” Marley asked.
“He went missing, we don’t know... he’s probably dead.”
...