The House at the Crossroads
There was a man who had received a very great wound. One day he finds his way into a house that he cannot possibly understand.

You won't have seen the house on the corner. Nobody sees the house on the corner. Not because it isn't there, not because it's invisible or hidden or camouflaged. You won't have seen the house on the corner because you don't believe it exists.

Nobody believes the house at the crossroads exists. Not unless they've been inside.

A short story.

Chilling and sweetly sad. I'll be revisiting the House again and again.
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The House at the Crossroads

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There is a crossroads on the far side of town where Shuck Street meets Barghest Crescent. You'll have passed it many times, perhaps on your daily commute, perhaps when visiting family in times of difficulty. Perhaps, even, when you've needed time alone and have just wanted to walk. We all pass the crossroads where Shuck Street meets Barghest Crescent.

But you won't have seen the house on the corner. Nobody sees the house on the corner. Not because it isn't there, not because it's invisible or hidden or camouflaged. You won't have seen the house on the corner because you don't believe it exists.

Nobody believes the house at the crossroads exists. Not unless they've been inside.

There was a man, much like any of us, who had received a great wound. The wounded man passed by the crossroads on a day very similar to this one. The air was cold and the sky stone grey. Darker clouds hung over the town ahead of him and the chill northeasterly refused to let him stay warm, even through his many thick layers. The man, like the rest of us, hadn't seen the house on the corner. Or rather, he had refused to see it. But today, perhaps because he was walking a little slower, perhaps because he felt he had a little further to go, perhaps just because it was cold and the road ahead was quickly darkening, the wounded man stopped for a moment.

'Save me...'

The words reached the man's ears as the slightest whisper, carried from far away on the cold northeasterly. And yet, there seemed something familiar about the voice, something that drew it closer, gave it form, wrapped it in dark wood and brick and set itself right beside him.

The wounded man turned to look at the house on the corner, where Shuck Street met Barghest Crescent. He had seen it before, he now realised. In some ways, it had always been there. The dark house in the grey world. And someone was inside now. Someone begging for help. Someone who needed saving.

The wounded man stepped through the gate.

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