At the end of the road, atop a slight rise of hills, stands a large Victorian style house, old, but in good condition, with a wrap-around front porch. The arcitecture seems to be from the early eighteen hundreds, obviously well maintained though. A balcony on the second floor paralells the porch, a gargoyle perched upon each corner of the railing, seeming to keep watch over the owner's domain. In the distance, back the way you came, perhaps a mile or so away, residents of the developments go about their daily business, oblivious to their distant neighbor. However, the story is different with this house, the forests surrounding the back yard and part of the sides, almost casting a permanent shadow over the property. Only the front faces the road, a black t-top Camaro with blood red flames upon the hood, parked in the driveway, showing the place to be inhabited at least, but by whom? More appropriately, by what? Such questions can only be answered should one choose to approach further, either by way of the sidewalk before the steps, or crossing the perfectly manicured lawn, and dare to knock upon the oaken door. Several windows can be seen around the house, the most noticable one in the shape of a pentacle above the front door. The others all seem to be covered with thick, black curtains, sheilding the interior from the light of the outside.

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