"This is the house, miss," the man from the town says, stopping a good few yards from the gate. Even as you thank him, he is walking briskly away - shoulders hunched, hands in pockets - and he does not turn around to answer you.
You peer through the wrought-iron curlicues of the gate and wonder if there has been some mistake. This house hardly looks inhabited. All its windows are dark. Its paint, whatever color it once was, has faded to a dull greyish shade. The posts of the porch railing are broken and jagged, leaning at odd angles like a mouthful of crooked teeth. Can this really be the home of your new employer?
Well, you should at least go up to the house and look. You've come all this way, after all.
You step through the gate. It creaks shut behind you.
A Short Horror Story by E. Joyce
Release 2 / Serial number 111109 / Inform 7 build 6F95 (I6/v6.31 lib 6/12N)
The tall, browning grass rustles in the chill wind, but there don't seem to be any flowers to bring a bit of color to the grey surroundings. A cobbled path cuts a narrow slice through the overgrown lawn, leading north to the house, and another path, branching off of that one, leads around the side of the house to the northwest. To the south looms the front gate.
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