Marge’s house was pink. A hideous color for any residence, but the fact that it enveloped hers was even more unsettling. It almost called to mind the witch’s house in Hansel and Gretel, except that Marge’s place wasn’t even inviting from the outside. It was a rambler, just like most of the houses in the neighborhood, and there were about five wind chimes hanging from the front porch; the whole effect made me think of a Tim Burton movie.
It was eerily quiet and the grass was extremely high in the front yard. I’m using the term grass loosely, as the greenery in her yard consisted of clovers and weeds.
Still filled with a sense of foreboding, I sat in the car in front of her house, staring. As I gathered enough courage to exit the car, I could swear that the air got thicker, like I was gett
