The house on 12th street

The sky darkens as a thick blanket rolls over the small village.

As the air thickens, breeze turns to bursts. The power lines sway dangerously high above the ground.





The town is battered and abused, the buildings small and weak compared to the mighty force of nature…

All but one…

Its name is never spoken aloud, for fear of what might happen if it is ever truly acknowledged, “The House on 12th Street”!

The rain grows harsher and the lightning more relentless, but all is dry inside the house.

The light from the merciless storm pieces the windows, catching on the airborne dust particles floating in the main hallway. A long, beige beam of light flows elegantly from the windowsill and lands gracefully on the wooden floor.

But something is off about this magnificent scene.





Lightning strikes! The silhouette is unmistakable. The shadow of a human hand laying, cold and stiff.

Everybody knew this house was to be taken seriously, the locals of the village daren’t go near it, and its almost completely rotted exterior made it impossible to go near by accident.

As suddenly as it started, the torrent of a storm came to rest, the trees soaked, and the flowers with huge droplets sticking like glue to the petals, and the small dirt village square flooded.





After staying up all night listening in terror to the sounds of thunder, the animals can now fall back asleep.

I look forward to seeing you in my next post

(Story by Miles Brack and Photos by Aiden Brack)

BYE