Nowhere Place

this house is somewhere desolate; none live here. the trees that surround this dim place are all grey, cracked and dead; there is not a memory of one green leaf, or the nest of a bird, or any hint of life.
this house is very old and worn. it is made of many other times, other places, other memories.
thick and sickly mud surrounds this place, yet from the rooftop you can see nothing but the ocean, a million miles wide and the horizen stretches forever and a day.
this house is Nowhere Place.
the floors sometimes sink, the roof has cracks, it is as if you are walking through the remains of a body.
warped and twisted are the things that happened here.
the children of an insane woman murdered, burried in the mud of the front yard. twenty years later, bones drift to the surface. paint peels from the walls, revealing the deep fingernail scratches of the woman, furious from the children's attempt to hold her hostage.
i do not know how i came upon such a house as this. all i know, though i do not wish, is that i am afraid.
Nowhere Place; it is not a place for childish dreamings, no. this house is a place for hopelessness, desperation, and despair. you long to leave when you are there.
a sound comes not from the surroudings, but the creaks and squeeks of the crooked floors are loud enough to terrify you.
people come and go here. none of which are old. i suppose this is because they know not to be afraid, therefor the effect of this place does not draw them in.
i met some of the people there. i met them many times before.
i talk with them, but not often. silence is too fitting of this place. a look tells all, and though your mind is clouded, you never cease to think.