A house sits on the right side of a desolate narrow street. The sun peaks through the old worn out curtains. Its yellow rays turn orange against the wall of an empty house. Silence consumes every space there is to be explored. An old creaky porch rest unoccupied in an overgrown yard of crisp brown grass. A mailbox occupies the front, its insides empty. The sun goes down every night washing the front of the house. It rises in the back of the house filling bedroom windows that shine into the dark hallways through doors that have not been closed in years. The faucet in the sink used to drip slowly, softly; the water bill hasn't been paid in years. Kids used to play in the yard throwing around a bright red ball and hop scotching on the cracked sidewalk out front. Laughter used to fill the yard as children rode bikes in the street. There is no sound anymore. We call this 302 Wallace Lane.
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302 Wallance Lane
AdventureThe house feels off from the moment Charlotte's boots hit the flooring inside the broken down house. Her new home of promises is an empty, white walled, cobweb, covered nightmare. Something feels strange, something traumatic happened here. She meets...
