The Other Ones

Number seventeen Yew Tree Lane was a tall and rickety house with grey wood panelling that was beginning to sag and rot. The roof was unusually pointy, formed of two sloping apexes, and the walls appeared as if they were being swallowed by the sprawling mass of ivy that covered them. The inhabitants of Holden refused to go near it. There had once been neighbours, but the houses next door both sat empty now. The postman threw the post over the gate, which had fallen from its frame and sunk into the ground. The locals quickened their steps as they passed by the end of the drive. Even the trees that lined the property’s perimeter seemed fearful. They strained against their roots, their long limbs stretching away from the house’s walls. Sal had lived there since he was born. When he was a boy, his mother had told him not to leave his room at night. The house wasn’t safe, she said, once the sun had gone down. In the bright light of day, he and his sister – Asha – played at slaying ghosts. In their imaginations the ghosts cowered before them.