Written on July 22, 2015.
Those coming for a fresh start in the little town had many choices in terms of residence, but something seemed to draw many of them to that old, worn-down house up on the hill. They'd brave the winding, one-lane road to the peak under the guise of wanting to see if it was the right fit for them, only having already made their decision. A week later they would be moved in, and a week after that they would stop being seen entirely. It was after one poor man's tattered mind actually made it out of the place that the neighborhood kids decided something had to be done. They began by scouting the exterior, drawing up a rough map of what the inside dimensions should roughly be in the hopes that the house did, in fact, conform to the laws of physics and space.
After the kids searched the house, they made a unanimous decision that, regardless of the consequences, they were to meet that night in the driveway. One of them would bring copious quantities of gasoline, another promised nigh 20 boxes of matches. One brought marshmallows, another brought sticks.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, they all prepared for what was to come, each separately gathering supplies and making their way up the dreaded hill. They met under cover of night, distributing gas cans among them to get the job done faster. Inside and out, each minute that passed doused the house in more and more gasoline, shining in the dim light of the full moon above. Once the kids were satisfied with the house's newfound flammability, they met again in the driveway, distributing packs of matches. One by one they struck them, giving each other confirming looks before tossing them into the gasoline, then into the flames.