A little house. Back a little from the road. On a little hill. Near a little corner. A little door. Two little windows, one each side of the door. A little chimney that sometimes smoked, but the smoke went in, not out. A little path to or from the door; it’s all relative.
No one lived there.
Twice someone knocked. Twice the door opened. Twice a visitor entered never to be seen again. But even more strange: the front doorknob was on the wrong side.
Troy was fascinated. So was everyone. Troy knocked. The door opened. He entered.