I take a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves. As I let it out, the cold night air causes it to form into a small fog cloud. In the soft glow of the moonlight I can clearly see the whole street. Including the old house at the end of the street: 502 Cherrywood Lane. It has been in a state of disrepair as long as I can remember. As long as anyone can remember. Many rumors have circulated about the house over the years. Murders, curses, satanic cults, greedy landlords, forgotten deeds; everyone tries to find a justification for why it has stood empty for so long. No one seems to give it any thought beyond that though. It is just an accepted fact in our town. Not until now.

I reach into my pocket and pull out the photo I had printed out in the town's library. It was a section of an article about someone winning a lottery of some kind. It was apparently exciting news at the time, because their picture holding a comically large check was featured front and center on the town's paper. Which, by itself wouldn't have been that interesting beyond as an interesting factoid of the town. What caught my eye was what was in the background. The picture was taken right here on Cherrywood Lane, and in the back of the photo, right over the winner's shoulder, was house 502. Despite the photo being almost seventy years old, the house was as old and worn down as it looks today. Exactly as old and worn down as it looks today. I hold up the photo to compare, and the resemblance is an exact match. Down to the crooked angle of the mailbox and the length of the overgrown grass in the front yard.

Despite the chill in the air, I feel myself break into a sweat. "How is this possible?" I ask aloud, despite being alone. The more I think about it, the more confused I get. Things that were always accepted as true and normal suddenly being thrown into question. Why was this long abandoned house never torn down or replaced? Why do kids only dare each other to enter the yard, rather then go inside the house fully? How did this house survive that fire a few years ago that swept the neighborhood? Every other house in a three block radius needed to undergo massive repairs or to be fully rebuilt. But not 502. I must know. I must find out what is really going on here.

I cautiously approach the house and hop the fence. I make my way down the overgrown path leading to the front door, the slight part in the grass indicating where the worn and cracked stones marking the way lay. Every voice inside me yells at me to turn back, but I push through them. The fact that the boards in the porch remain silent is lost on me as I reach for the door handle, hand shaking.

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The next morning, an elderly woman wakes to find a letter left for her on her kitchen table. She recognizes the handwriting as her son's. She opens it, and reads aloud: "I'm sorry ma. I have to know. There are too many questions. With any luck, I'll see you in the morning." She sighs, folding the letter and placing it back in its envelope before throwing it in the trash. The smell of her cooking breakfast lures her husband out from the bedroom. As she serves him a plate of bacon and eggs, she says "I knew we should have told him. He was going to go poking around eventually." In return he grunts out "Shame. he was a good kid. Just a bit too smart for his own good."