Setting

On the very outskirts of a small dusty western town, along a road with mostly suburban houses, though now nothing more than abandoned shacks, the wind blows dirt and browned leaves along. There is one house, dirty and decrepid as the rest of them, if not more so, at the very dead end of the lane. This house stands 4 stories high, a large pale, shabby blue roof perched atop it, trying to be a part of the sky itself. All the windows are boarded and broken, excluding the huge picture window in the back which is now basically a gaping hole in the wall.
The paint is peeling every where, eroded by sun and rain and ice. The boards that made the formerly off-white and wooden siding boards are cracked and falling, revealing chipped, weathered bricks, some missing. The front door is the only strong thing left, securely bolted, hinged, and riveted into place, in great contrast to the deck, riddled with holes from times when children sought it as a playground, and thought it was haunted, and times when animals searched for warmth in its empty halls, and finding none. The yard is dead, muffled colors of yellow, brown and white, with large patches of soil poking through.
There are a few trees and bushes surrounding the property all but rotting and collapsed, fertilizer for a next springtime generation that isn’t going to come. The smell of rot and darkness, of abandonment and age hang like a veil over the house, choking anything that could come close to life on its grounds; you can almost taste its strong, saddening scent.
Around the back yard, a tiny fallen shed, really just a small pile of boards now, and a larger, crumbling garage look like corpses in a deep brown wooden color, the color of desecration and decaying. They have dirt floors and the dark stench grabs them, too.
In the middle of the garage there’s a large Chevrolet station wagon, a Malibu . The grey metallic, oxydized tones are fairly muted with age, and the fake wood paneling is peeling in large strips along the sides. The car is huge, a thundering beast when it used to roar to life with ignition, screeching also with it’s lack of a fan belt. It has 8 cylinders and guzzled gas as if addicted. The right back door is dented in a huge crater pattern and creaks loudly when it is attempted to be opened. The tires are all flat, and every single piece of rubber hardware is corroded or missing. The bumpers are falling off, rusted, and they match the siding and the entirety of the scene in fact, hanging on by a musty, dirty thread.
In the interior of the actual house, there is little, most of the area of the floors have fallen though, and the rubble lay helter skelter across the ground, one or two staircases still stand, waiting for a another person to traverse up or down them, a person that won’t show up. Dispersed amongst the rubble is, junk, a few bits of furniture, splayed and scattered across the area, the occasional almost annihilated book or toy. Some times just random pieces of twisted metal or splintered wood lying helplessly around.
Through two large holes in the ceiling, rays of moonlight or beams of sun, sometimes just more rain to flood and putrify the desolate jumble, yet the water washes out all its former glory, and some of its nastiness, as it adds to it.