I step through the flower-pots and portable vegetation, picking my way up the weather beaten steps to the faded green front door.
A strange front door holds potential like no other thing. Serial killers know this; so do salesmen. Home invaders and religion hawkers are well used to the phenomenon.
You’ve tracked down your lost mother, or are picking up a blind date for the first time… the feeling won’t be alien to you.
Anything at all could be behind the door.
I knock on the wood panel, paint flaking against my knuckles. Three short reports.
After a few seconds, I hear sounds from within. Shuffling, muffled footsteps. The clattering of chains on the other side of the door.
There’s nothing to do but wait. The house will give up its secrets in its own time.
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