In every sleepy suburban town, there is, every so often, that vacant and desolate house beside your very own home. It lies there, isolated and lonely, waiting to be occupied. It has a spooky and untouchable aura around it. When you walk up close, the breeze seems to halt, and all of a sudden, the surrounding air is exceptionally still.
You shiver all over, and the skin on your arm begins to prickle. Amidst the overgrown shrubs and the unkempt pavement, you sense the mystery of this despondent house, and even more, that of its residents.
Before they came along, there were signs. We saw estate agents warily bring in prospective tenants. We saw a big red slash painted over the scruffy " For Sale" sign that hung limp at the front door. Then, there were the furniture movers who drove in with oversized Victorian furniture. This was all a prelude for what was to come.
Then they drove in one day, our new neighbors. They were strange people whom kept to themselves. My mom, upon seeing their arrival, had invited them over for a refreshing batch of cookies and lemonade. They promptly refused. They were a family of four, a couple, husband and wife and their two children, a girl and a boy. The girl was in her mid-teens. The boy, a little older than me. All four were pale and pasty looking. They dressed rather conservatively and there was almost never a smile on each face, nor was there ever any sign of satisfaction in their eyes.
I looked forward to seeing them at school, I thought, maybe we could become friends and then walk to school together. But, when school started late that August, they weren't there the first day; they weren't there the second day,