Near the end of ‘K’ street, just before it crosses the stone bridge, there sits an old blue house. Though it is the last thing I see when I leave town, and the first I see when I return home, it has always filled me with a peculiar kind of creeping dread. Its squat and decrepit form propagates a plethora of horrid rumors while confirming none.

The windows, cracked and barred, lend credence to the rumors that the house was once used as an asylum for those with conditions that were hidden away, separated from society. The blue paint on the outside rips away in ragged strips, reminiscent of claw marks, revealing wood underneath covered in strange patterns of ominous stains and dark scorch marks.

People hurry by without looking at it closely. They avert their eyes and grow quiet until they have passed it, as if merely acknowledging it could transfer its owner’s poor luck and mysterious rumors to them by sight alone. I know this because I watch the blue house more closely than any other, for it is my house.