We watch the dog trot in circles and then head back the way it came. It slips through the bars of the gate towards a hunched over silhouette. Leaning on a cane, the silhouette journeys across the endless lawn.
“Is that her?” Beth asks. She scrunches her nose. The silhouette pulls out a heavy ring of keys. She works a rusty old key into the massive iron gate and tugs. It falls open with a loud squeak. Then she lifts a hand and waves us through.
“Okay then,” Jackson says. He puts the car into drive. It sloshes towards the house. The iron gate creaks shut behind us. Up close the building consists of crumbled bricks and chipped paint. Weathered stone cherub statues guard the doors. It looks like there’s never been any sort of restoration to the property. I wonder about the children who slept behind these walls, what it was like to live here. Everything about the house seems broken.
Jackson rolls up to the circular driveway just as lightning flashes in the distance.
“That’s just perfect,” I say, eyeing the sky.
“Unload?” Elliot asks Jackson, nodding to the equipment.
“Let’s scout it out first,” Jackson says.
The hunched silhouette hobbles onto the porch. We exchange wary looks.
“Anyone else feel like we’re about to get raped?” Beth asks.
Yes, I want to say, but I keep quiet. The gate’s already closed. It would be too much trouble to go back now. Jackson climbs out of the car. We follow him into the wall of rain, scrambling up the uneven cobblestone steps.
“Careful,” Elliot says. “It’s slick.”
I almost fall backwards, but manage to catch myself. The rain slicker clad silhouette steps into the house. The others follow her, and after one last look to the lawn ornaments and the gardener, I do too.
Inside, Mrs. Green shakes off her jacket, revealing her broad-shoulders and hunched back. She looks to be in the mid-60s and has these tired, sad eyes. A gnarly scar travels from the corner of her mouth to her ear.
The German Shepherd runs up to us, fur wet, and sniffs our jackets and pants. He prods his nose into my leg, throwing me off balance.
“Sebastian. No. Outside. Outside,” Mrs. Green says, pointing to the door.
The dog cowers, tail between its legs, and then sulks outside.
“Shoes off please. Just mopped.” She smiles, hanging up her rain slicker.
We remove our shoes. The antique furniture looks like it hasn’t been used in decades. The curtains are closed on every window, and there’s a damp, sweet smell, like rotting garbage. I run my hand along a chair and a layer of fine dust cakes on my fingers. Wiping the dust on my jeans, I study a portrait of a stern lady, her hands clasped on her lap.