The Hidden House

The abandoned house sits alone on top of the hill, hidden by overgrown trees and Spanish Moss. The off-white paint is chipped away everywhere and almost completely gone around the door frame, revealing pure stone, gray like rainclouds. A green moss, the only thing that seems to have an interest in the old house, grows up the walls. A chill fills the air, even on a hot summer’s day, while crows fly overhead, never landing, as even they don’t dare get too close to the ghastly structure. The windows, spotted with grime and dirt, never fully latch closed, but swing shut in the wind, causing a loud ‘clank’, as metal hits stone. On the dead and decayed trees hang a few withered leaves. The wind wills the trees to fall, but they refuse, as stubborn as the old house to stay standing. And so the house will remain on the hidden hill, breaking down, like bones in the ground, until there is nothing left to be called a house at all.