THE HUNGER
The summer house remains, its origins a mystery now; a drifter through time, slipping between worlds, decayed and broken but never falling; a deadly visitor, the eater of children, the destroyer of lives.
Enticing the innocent into its shrouded domain, it waits with the promise of base camps and dens; places to play, secrets to share; an army camp on Monday, a dolls house on Wednesday. It waits silently for the curious to stumble upon.
It is always eager, desperate for the fresh, young souls, for it has a voracious appetite.
I played there once, lured in by its earthy scent and almost hidden location. I was a robber hiding out from the police and in the end, they found me, the officers with their sniffer dogs.
They say my body was unmarked. Slumped in the corner looking as if I'd fallen asleep and forgotten to wake up.
If only they knew the truth.
The sudden sense of isolation, the feeling of being watched by unseen eyes. Its painted skin rippling with anticipation. Vibrations so subtle that only the hair on your arms can detect. The ancient wood, porous, thirsty, the very bones of the beast, sighing, breathing.
A chill in the air, almost imperceptible as it makes its move, siphoning your soul from its body, dredging the foundations of your mortality.
The damp wood beckons, you sit as tiredness overwhelms you, until the vessel that housed your being is empty, drained of its life force, you are dead.
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