The house is the color of muskmelon and has the same sunny charm. It looks out of place in its rundown suburb, where it attracts the attention of those who know that anyone with such a fine home must have money. Some break in to steal its valuables. Others, dressed in the smart clothes of realtors, see another kind of opportunity in the lovely home. Surely the owners want to leave their bad neighborhood. The agent can help them. For a commission, of course.

The money, the valuables, they’re there, in the house. You can smell it.

There’s a house like this in every city, from Detroit to Mogadishu, and no one ever sees the owners. Always someone tries to go in, though, sometimes for larceny, sometimes for honest greed.

The house, though? It doesn’t care about your motives. It only cares that you go into the basement, where the sticky sweet smell draws no flies, attracts no rats, and leaves only the clean, clean bones of the unwary.

See the author’s published work here.

Related Posts

• 

  The Unmarked Grave

• 

  The American: Trouble with Kidnapping (pt. 10)

• 

  Soft Iron