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Some said she had been a witch, others said she had just been mad, but everyone agreed that the house itself was wrong, that it seemed to breathe, that the floorboards groaned even when nothing walked on them, and that the air around it was always colder than the rest of the block. The children dared each other to run up and touch the door, but none ever went inside, not even on a dare, because the windows seemed to watch you, and the chimney sometimes emitted a thin wisp of smoke even though there was no fire, and the garden, once a tangle of roses and ivy, had grown into a wild, thorny mass that reached toward the street like grasping fingers. The porch swing hung from a single chain, swaying slightly in the wind even when there was no wind, and the boards beneath it were stained with something dark that had never washed away, no matter how many rains fell. The door itself was a heavy oak thing, studded with iron nails, and the knob was a brass lion’s head that had tarnished to a sickly green, and when you put your hand on it, you could feel a faint vibration, as if something on the other side was humming a tune you almost recognized. The steps were worn in the middle, hollowed out by decades of feet, and the left side had a crack that ran all the way to the foundation, and if you knelt down and peered into it, you could see darkness that seemed to go down forever, and sometimes you thought you saw a pair of eyes looking back. The gutters were clogged with leaves and twigs, and during a storm the water would pour over the edges in brown waterfalls, soaking the siding, which had blistered and warped so that it looked like the skin of an old animal. 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