The Closed Door, Part 4.
Her history with Hollow Hall.
Hollow Hall sits at the edge of town, colored a bloody grey from the red sands constantly blowing in from the nearby desert. The windows yawn open like cavernous mouths, swallowing any sunlight that gets through the warped glass. Its roof shingles dangle like witch claws, ready to ensnare any inattentive passerby.
And in the same picture, lush grass covers the entire property, with flowering bushes snuggled beneath the first-floor windows of the mansion. The bright emerald front door glows like a crown jewel, with a large, toothy lion as a door knocker that warmly beckons you to use it. Hollow Hall is equal parts nightmare zombies and jolly Santa Claus.
Sometimes I wonder if it’s really there. I’ve noticed cars drive past going fifty miles an hour even though there’s a stop sign right next to it. I’ve seen kids’ wayward soccer balls roll onto the lawn, or drones land on the disintegrating roof. No one ever retrieves them; the kids just walk away, their lost item forgotten. I’ve looked out from my bedroom window on certain nights, I swear it shifted a few miles across the landscape.
Growing up, my mom (and most adults) told me to keep away from Hollow Hall. That drug addicts, robbers, and child molesters lived within its decaying framework, looking to influence children like…
