There was a house on Pinkerton Way that intimidated adults and children alike. Rumors would bloom every October about people who died in the house: a mother who drowned herself and her toddler in the bath; a pair of twins who fell off the balcony while playing a game; a teenager who shot his father before shooting himself.
None of these tales held any veracity, but the stories acted like an electric fence to the public and held visitors at bay. No one truly knew if any of these people had lived in this house, and no one knew if anyone would live there again.
Even if not for the various mutters and murmurs about the house, there was something not quite right about 303 Pinkerton Way. It looked calm, pleasant even, especially in the daylight. It sat quaint and pretty, with its faded eggshell shutters and its strange robin-blue siding. It didn’t appear spooky or threatening or unnatural to a passerby.
Yet something was still amiss. Children refused to walk by it when they returned home from school. They crossed and recrossed the street to avoid it. Dogs would sit and snarl at it if their owners decided to detour down Pinkerton Way.
Teens would whisper about the house, feeling the hairs rise on the back of their neck as they slowly glanced it over. It was never the place for a party, nor an impromptu affair.
Every once in awhile, however, a daring soul took one look at the shabby staircase to the front door and scrambled up to check the lock. The door of 303 Pinkerton Way was never locked, but it was heavy and awkward to open.
The soul in question, usually a preteen and usually acting on a dare, would struggle with the door, breathing in relief as the door did not budge, and then turn to leave. Just as they were down the first step, the door would reluctantly swing ajar, and the poor preteen would shiver and take a peek inside.
They never ventured far into the house; each one saw something that shook them to their core and caused them to flee to their giggling friends. As they left, 303 Pinkerton Way would close once more, leaving its appearance welcoming, but its front door shut tightly.
And thus, 303 Pinkerton Way sat silent, empty, and undisturbed.
For the most part, anyhow.
