The house is dim and dirty. The paint is peeling from the clapboard sides. The only sound is the wrought iron fence gate, swinging in a wind that runs through your spine. As the image sinks into your memory, you notice one more thing – up in the tower something is moving, pacing the floor as if they have a century’s worth of worry worn deep into the path on the floor.
From there, it’s pretty much as expected. Screams, murder, mayhem, and an unnecessary trip to the first floor later, it all winds up in ninety minutes. But aren’t these stories for Fall, not Spring?