There is a house at the end of the street --
An empty house.

It is not a magnificent house -- maybe it once was, but the house has forgotten how to be so, and the people who lived inside are long gone. There is mold in the walls, gouges in the wood floors, and dust, plenty of dust. Sometimes, during a thunderstorm, the television will flicker on and off, but other than that, the house is silent.

There is a bag of broken light bulbs on the kitchen floor. A pan for cooking brownies is still in the dish drainer, waiting to be put away.  The incorrigible fan still spins on, the almost unnoticeable breeze wafting the papers still tacked to the open refrigerator. Emma Jean's third grade report card is framed just above the stove, and Dr. M. C. Schmidt's master's degree in cardiology rests just below it.

Except for the mold, there isn't any plant life creeping into the estate, as if by sheer force of will, it can keep nature at bay. This might be a mistake on its part-the largest bloodstain is still a deep scarlet on the living room floor, and the chalk stubbornly remains untouched. Mrs. Schmidt's second-best steak knife is stuck fast into the baby blue wallpaper, without so much as the thinnest vine to mask it.

The porch is house's sole redeeming feature. Paul-the-carpenter's pearl-white porch swing has dirtied with time, but is as detailed as ever. Tiny flowers form the handle while a pair of carved swallows rests on each side. The elegant silver chain has, miraculously, remained rust free, and the seat swings in the wind without so much as a creak. The evergreen welcome mat is inviting, and the gray-as-smoke rail surrounds the porch protectively -- a fat lot of good it did.

Today is August 16, 2002. The house is empty, but it has not forgotten.

* * *

At noon, the house has changed. The blood has been painstakingly scrubbed down to a pale pink, and the chalk outline is gone. The dust was brushed away; the mold is being eaten away by some expensive formula. The empty refrigerator is shut, and the frames, carefully wrapped, wait in the closest postal bin to be delivered to Mrs. Emma Schmidt-Jamison. The knife has been thrown away, as have the light bulbs, and the wall patched up. The marks on the floor are untouched, but an elegant, Oriental rug has been used to cover them. A single purple hyacinth rests on the welcome mat.

Today is the fifteenth anniversary, and the house is at peace.