Only a shell of the house remains.
A thick pelt of ivy crawls over its exterior so even the dead windows are mere slits in its green tangle.
Inside, colonies of jackaws nest and roost. Watchful sentries are posted about the house’s gnarled crown, and in surrounding trees.
At your approach they rise, a raucous shout from its dark throat, and spit out in a black cough across the sky.
Their wings beat above your head as you step into the shadow cast by their abode.
The silence as you pass through the darkness is the resentful reproach of the disturbed.