No one goes in. No one goes out. The only creatures that lurk in the front yard are crows that perch in the trees and a pure white cat, which prowls the perimeter of the fence or perches itself on the dingy front step, blue eyes narrowed and tail twitching.
The front yard is always dark from the long shadows cast by the tall, damp cedars that loom over the street corner. Thick moss has grown over most of the front lawn. The grass that is left is long and unkempt from years of neglect. A single old vine maple stands in the center of the yard, stunted and skinny from a lack of light. Somehow, it manages to produce a few leaves each year. Their autumnal bright red is the only bit of brightness around the place and it vanishes in early September when the leaves whither and die prematurely.
Neighborhood kids (and occasionally parents) who are brave enough to peek through the fence knotholes into the backyard can only see years of blackberry vines twisted around one another to form a thick forest of thorns. In spring time, the spots of lawn that get sun will grow so tall that the blades peek over the top of the fence and sometimes an occasional blackberry branch will find a hole to grow through. No one succumbs to the temptingly plump fruit, however. Once they over-ripen and fall off the vines, the crows gleefully descend, cackling over their harvest until the miserly old cat bounds in to frighten them back into the trees.
The small house itself is said to have once been a bright, Pepto-Bismol pink. Time has since covered it in several layers of a brown-green, mildewy sheen, giving it the color of old bubble gum that has been cemented to the pavement. The roof has begun to grow the same moss as the front lawn and kids have started betting how long it will take until the whole house disappears, reclaimed by nature.
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