The house at the bottom of Danger Hill

There's a small house with a dark red door. The windows are paned, its flower boxes stuffed to the brim, and there is a perfectly grown apple tree which dutifully hides the white garage door at its side. It sits a the bottom of an incline charmingly named Danger Hill.

It stands empty, waiting to be claimed. I'm sure there are many who would gladly adopt it and settle into its frame if they could, but alas, the economy is a merciless beast.

But this is not about our annoying financial woes.

One house, many possibilities, some good, some bad. I look through one of the panes and see a young mother pulling a pie out of the oven. I think its apple. Probably organic. She looks like she would pay the extra dollar or two to buy organic. Her two toddlers come waddling in as she closes the oven door with her foot and somehow simultaneously herds them in the direction of the kitchen table. She is setting the pie on the counter as I pull away and look through another pane...

An old man has just come in through the back door. Rain is dripping from his brown coat. He grumbles as he takes a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes down his balding crown and flushed face. Opening the freezer door he takes out a frozen dinner and sets it in the microwave, pushing the buttons with familiar ease. Stepping into the hall, he hangs up his sopping coat then returns to the kitchen. He grabs a fork, pulls the hot dinner out, and wanders into the living room. There's a small television in the corner and he flips it on with an old remote, intent upon the evening news as he eats. There are two pictures on the fireplace mantel. One is black and white, a smiling young woman and a tall young man with thick hair stand side by side at the alter. The second is in color, but with the tell tale signs of age. The couple is older now, a few lines at their eyes but happy as they pose with their two teenage sons. There are no other pictures...

Another pane. It's dark. A girl, perhaps fifteen or sixteen, creeps towards the front door. She readjusts her backpack on her shoulder and grimaces as the floorboards creak under her slight weight. She opens the door slowly, carefully, and that is the last I see of her...

I should stop snooping. One more pane I tell myself, then I'm gone.

The house is empty. Not the kind of empty which comes with someone recently moved out, but true empty. Dust has settled onto the counters and the floors. Cobwebs litter the corners, stretching at times to include a cupboard or door handle. The window overlooking the kitchen sink has been broken. A few leaves have scattered themselves on the floor. I look to my left to see that three people have stepped through the front door. The one leading looks like a professional. Her hair is properly trimmed and her nails look as though they are regularly spoiled. The two behind her are dressed in clean blue jeans and button down shirts, the woman has her brown hair pulled up into a loose ponytail. The man holds her hand, looking around curiously.

The professional keeps trying to hide her grimacing as she steps further into the house. She doesn't look to hopeful. The couple, on the other hand, don't seem to notice the dust and leaves. They brush aside the cobwebs. The woman is smiling and pointing to what used to be the living room. The man nods and motions to the kitchen, apparently taking her thoughts and adding to them. There is a determined spark in each of their eyes. The professional stands back then jumps slightly when a brave insect crawls across the toe of her shiny shoes. I laugh to myself and pull away...

The house stands at the base of Danger Hill. It has a a dark red door and overflowing flower boxes. The For Sale sign sways slightly in the breeze. I take a new penny from my pocket and toss it on the front step. It lands face up.

I smile and begin to ascend the hill, hoping for the best.