Up on the hill there stands a house. It is no ordinary house, though. Its dirty windows are cracked with age and the wooden door hangs on its hinges with ivy snaking up its side. The walls of the house are stone and jagged with lumps and bumps all over them. Strangling vines drape down from the roof, like fingers ready to reach out and grab you. They search out the windows and ram their way through the tiny gaps as eager as a fox hunting for rabbits.

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