Every house on Maple Street was built in the late 1960s. Two perfect rows of three bedroom, one bath, mid century ranches with attached garage. Each of the seven houses were painted a cheery pastel color with names like Mellow Yellow and Bubblegum Pink. The yards were tidy, lawns cut short, simple flower beds with easy to manage shrubbery. There was no HOA, just a general understanding of the aesthetic and an appreciation for curb appeal.

Every house, but one.

Number seven had once been painted a Robin’s Egg Blue, and proudly owned by Mr. Earl Johnson. Purchased just after it was built and inhabited by his family until his death in 1999. Ever since it’s been boarded up, and ignored. The grass grows tall, the shrubbery coveres the entire front wall, and a rotting tire swing still haunts the lone tree in the back yard.

No one in the neighborhood mentions the eyesore at the end of the road across from the empty lot. No one brings up the Johnsons, nor why the house has never sold.

I wish they had so I’d have some idea of what to expect as I stand nervously at the end of its driveway.

“I heard he murdered his whole family. Even their dog,” whispers Gage to Max.

“No I heard they were actually a Satanic cult, and only pretend to be a family as a cover,” argues Jack.

I’m fidgeting with the buttons of my shirt. Why did I have to hit that foul ball this way.

“Well,” Marshal says to me. “Go on, Sam.”

“Are you sure I can’t just buy you another baseball?” I ask one more time, just in case he’s changed his mind in the last thirty seconds.

Marshal, pretty much the meanest kid in sixth grade, glares at me. He lifts a fist and pounds it into the palm of his other hand.

Message received.

“Right,” my voice is squeaky with nerves. I gulp. “I’ll just go in there and get it.”

I walk up the drive, but turn back one more time, all of the other boys are standing behind Marshal. He still looks mad, but they look as scared as I feel. A couple hide their face behind their mitt, like they can’t bear to watch. I think Davey might even be praying a Hail Mary or two. None of them are going to volunteer to go in my place.

I reach the front porch and hope my luck will turn around. If only the front door was locked and nailed shut, then the guys could forget about it and I wouldn’t be thought a coward. Surely a baseball isn’t worth a B & E on my record.

I don’t have any luck though, I try the door and it opens easily with a long drawn out creeeeeeek.

The noise startles something inside the house and two crows fly out the front door, practically parting my hair in their hasty escape.

I scream. Behind me most of the boys scream too and run down the road, back to the safety of their homes. Marshal doesn’t move though, and neither do Jack and Davey.

“Get moving, Sam,” Marshal yells.

The entryway and living room are wrecked, dirty and dusty. There’s a terrible odor, and stains on the floors. It’s really quiet too. So quiet I’d think I had cotton in my ears if it weren’t for the soft thud of my footsteps.

I try to not look at anything as I make my way through the living room and into the hall. It’s hard to shake off the feeling like I’m an invader, as if I’m interrupting the house’s daily routine of mouldering.

The first bedroom on the left has more broken furniture and graffiti on the walls but no baseball so I keep moving.

The next room is strangely empty. There’s glass on the floor from where the ball flew in, but nothing else. I turn around thinking the ball might have rolled into the closet but it isn’t there either.

Back in the hallway I hear a scuffling from the door across from the room I’m in. It’s closed. I reach for the handle, but the sound makes me think of the crows from earlier. What if there is a wild animal in there, like a raccoon or rabid possum?

Instead of opening it I lay on my belly so I can see under the door.

There’s nothing. It looks like its empty just like the second bedroom.

Something makes that scuffling again and Marshal’s baseball rolls across the floor. I’m tracking its progress, when a large mass suddenly blocks my view.

Fear floods through my veins like cold water, but my mind is having a hard time understanding what I’m looking at, then it blinks.

It’s a man’s eye. It’s a face. A person. A murder or a ghost I don’t know, but I’m not alone in this house.

“Boo.”

His breath in my eye shocks me back to my senses and I’m scrambling up on my hands and knees crawling desperately down the hall. I’m so scared I can’t seem to remember quite how to stand.

The door to the third bedroom slams against the wall with the force he used to open it and now I’m finally running. I hit my hip on an overturned lounge chair but I barely feel it.

I’m out the door. I can hear screaming. I think it must be Marshal, Jack, and Davey but when I see them standing like statues in shock it dawns on me the screams are coming from me. I fly by them and abandon all hope of being cool or one of the guys. I just want to live.

The man doesn’t chase us any farther than the front porch, but his maniacal laughter follows me through my nightmares for years after this encounter.