I hear his muffled, rustic tone from the other side of the door. “Do come in,” he says, “I’ve been expecting you.” The knob offers a labored sound, as if it needs oiling; more dissonant than a hyena’s laugh. The door creaks open. Upon stepping inside, the atmosphere is not the least bit welcoming: overturned furniture; cobwebs; a tarp of dust leaving no centimeter of creaky hardwood uncovered.
Nobody lives here. Nobody’s lived here for decades. But then what of my invitation?