No one talked about the house at the end of Sycamore Row.

No one even dared to look in that direction.

No one...

Until now.

It was October. The air was particularly crisp and snow clouds gathered half-heartedly on the horizon, as if to tell the sun to hasten its retreat as the dying rays painted the sky in bloody shades of red.

Their nervous giggles hung in the air like the tinkling of little bells, as Sasha and Amara rounded the corner of the street. A gust of wind swept and swirled dried maple leaves along the way, the dry crackling sound reminded Sasha of crumpled paper.

'It's just another one of those dumb urban legends,' she said dismissively, pressing the button so she and her twin could cross the road.

'Aren't you just a little bit curious though!' exclaimed Amara, whose eyes sparkled with mischief.

'Nope.' Sasha pursed her lips to prove her point, and buried her nose right back in her book as soon as they were safely on the sidewalk.

'You're so boring!' Amara laughed, playfully smacking her sister's arm as she sprinted ahead, her ponytail wagging back and forth like a pendulum behind her shoulders. 'Last one's a rotten egg!' she yelled in a sing-song voice reminiscent of the silly races they used to have when they were younger.

Amara plugged in her earbuds and continued ahead at a steady jog, singing along to a pop song called "Roar". She was an athlete; the total opposite of her sister who, though identical in features, was nothing at all like her. Sasha was the dreamer of the two, she always loved books and lately developed a talent for photography. The temperature was dropping quickly, but Amara didn't seem to notice as she sped up her jog again. She also didn't notice that her sister was no longer following behind her.

Of course they knew all the stories. But no one truly believed such things could happen in this day and age. They'd sooner forget than remember. Why? Because it's easier to pretend that the monsters under your bed did not exist...

It grew eerily still. That was when Sasha looked up from the book she was reading, only to realize that the landscape had changed. A slow mist had crept in, and the street lamps were on. She did not think it was that late. How long was she standing there?

'Amara!' she called out, her eyes squinting as she tried to see through the grey curtain of fog. The sickly yellow glow of the street lamps made everything look like an old movie. Sasha pulled out her camera and started capturing her surroundings. She continued walking straight, she knew this road well enough to find her way even with her eyes closed. She would be home any minute now.

Within the abysmal depths of the asylum, a girl laughed. An empty, hollow, joyless sound. She seemed to be amused by some game that only she knew how to play. Only she knew the rules. And not knowing the rules can be a very, very bad thing.

'What the hell...'

Sasha's voice was thin and thready as she peered through her camera's viewfinder. What she saw spooked her enough that she tumbled backwards, tripping on a tree root that had pried the pavement open. She blinked and rubbed her eyes. There was nothing there. She spun around, staring at where she had come from. She shook her head, blinking the mist out of her eyes as she peered around her in disbelief.

She raised her camera again.

The house was a sprawling decrepit Victorian, with black, black windows that stared back at her. The east and west wings of the building stretched out like the appendages of a flightless bat.

She checked her wristwatch. The second hand was ticking -- counter clockwise. 'What the hell is happening...' she breathed. Against the fear that crawled on her skin, she held the camera up to her face again and started walking toward the disappearing house.

This is where they go. All the ones sent away from the lives that didn't want them anymore. All the ones wasted and withered. All the ones who must stay hidden. The trouble with hidden things is that, they eventually come to the surface. So foolish that some believe the suffering could end. So foolish...

This, is only the beginning.

It's a cruel melody when

you play with my heart,

broken strings, our memories

have crumbled into to dust.

It's a cruel melody when

the song we used to sing

discordant notes on the wall

peeling off like dirty paint.

It's a cruel melody when

disjointed rhymes afloat

in the air catch dying light

of dreams all for naught.

It's a cruel melody when

serenades are hushed,

out of tune, out of time

our love has turned to rust.