The twinkles blinked on the window’s cracks, a Christmas fractal leering at the the top of the street just before the alleyway.

The house faces north, the mildewed hovel that looms and frightens the local children, a hallowe’en rumour of grim deeds past and lost to time. 

Now it is December. The festive decorations lend the house a twisted glamour, some extra light to make the dark places the darker, the holes in the windows blacker than death and cold.

The front door was open, I went in.

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