Over the lunch, a sandwich and simple wrapped piece of meat, the man glanced up with increasing frequency and interest. The house seemed to call to him, to pulse with unseen light, and when the last of the meat was stripped from its bone and safely chewed and in his stomach, he rose and walked upon the front porch and to the door.

This traveler was particularly interested in the old house because of its run-down look. Danger wasn’t something that really bothered him; it never was. He didn’t know, or even care, what the people inside might think of him walking in—that is, if anyone even lived there. Still, there was something that bothered him. He looked to the window and saw nothing but a dirty pane of glass, so he did the only thing that seemed logical: he opened the door.

A cold weak gust of wind grazed his skin as he walked in. The room was encrusted with filth. He saw a hall leading to the kitchen and a darkened room. "Man, stinks," he said as he walked in.

The entrance hall was empty, a bare room with 30s-era plaster lining the walls. He could see faint marks on the floor where furniture had been. "Hello?" He half whispered, but the call was lost in the emptiness of the strange house and consumed by the void.

The man took a deep breath, forced a smile, and walked with confidence he wished he felt through the doorway on the left. The door hung from one hinge, inwards. Light seemed to draw away, but a bit permeated the grit-coated window, enough for him to see the vague outlines of a chair and fireplace in the darkness. The high back faced towards him.

And slowly, as the man stared, slowly, as his white-knuckled hands gripped tighter and tighter the flaking wood of the doorframe, slowly, ever so slowly, the chair began to turn, and the form upon it was visible.