When I reached the house I scuffled slowly up the leaf-strewn driveway not really wanting to be there. I knew I'd have to feign interest where there wasn't any. Everything was not only old and antiquated in that house but the old man that had lived there had painted crude scenes from his childhood on the walls in every room except the sitting room. The paintings looked like pictures children bring home and tape to the refrigerator with square houses, barns and sheds, that leaned, and animals that also leaned. Throughout the scenes were the typical elementary trees with balloon foliage and a scattering of stick people. Though the artwork wasn't totally repulsive it looked as out of place as everything else in the house did. But then... maybe everything fit the house perfectly and the people were out of place. Whatever it was something wasn't right there and some part of me must have picked up on it the first and last time I was there.
Page 5