It all happened one boring Friday after noon when I had nothing better to do than sit and watch T.V waiting for an adventure to come knocking on the my door. Even though I was not expecting it to happened, there was a knock on my door and before I could answer it an envelope was slid under my door. My curiosity piqued, I opened the envelope to find the following note inside:

Dear, Mr. Knott

You have inherited a plot of land. Please arrive as soon as possible at the following address: 3369 Knott Dr. Franklin, PA 02038.

P.S. The key is for the front door.

I recognized the address from driving to and from work. So, because I had nothing better to do, I decided to go out on an adventure. I grab my jacket, my keys, and I headed out the door.

The gravel crunched under the tires of my 69′ Ford pick-up as I drove up the drive way. The roof of the house appeared as I reached the top of the little hill. The roof had been stripped of about two-thirds of its slate shingles, and the stone chimney was only about half there. The eastern white farm house wall was laced with unattended vines. All the windows were blocked by several wooden planks nailed to the frame of the window, prohibiting all light from entering the house. A large maple tree loomed over the house and the end of the drive way.

The breaks moaned as my truck slowly came to a halt in front of the run down house. I removed the envelope containing the rusty key from the passenger’s seat and got out of my truck. A cold breeze whistled through the branches of the maple tree. Zipping up my green jacket, I walked up to the patio which greeted me with wooden hand rails shedding their layers of paint. I opened the screen door that broke off in my hand. I set it off to the side and forced the key into the key hole. After having much difficulty unlocking the door, I turned the brass handle and pushed open the door introducing myself to a dark and dusty world.

The house stripped of light fought off the dim sun flooding though the open door. The dust particles, suspended mysteriously in the air, reflected the little bits of light making them visible to my eye. A few steps into the fleeting darkness and old gas lantern sat on a lonely wooden end table. “I didn’t except it to be this dark,” I said silently to myself,” but at least they were courteous enough to leave a lantern. Now where are the matches?” My eyes scanned the surrounding room, but only found darkness. They eventually found their way back to the end table upon where I saw a slightly opened drawer. I slid the rest of it open as more dust was thrown into the air. The drawer, embroidered with cobwebs, contained a faded match book graced with illegible red text and unknown advertisements. I flip open the palm sized wallet and found three remaining matches. In a futile attempt I scratched my first match across the rough surface producing not even a spark. I ripped out the second match praying that it would light. I scratched it on the rough surface. A premature flame engulfed the remaining phosphorus, surviving ever so slightly. As the infant flame came close to the woven cloth, the fire overwhelmed the wick releasing a steady bright light that pushed the darkness farther back revealing old wooden walls. The faces of the pictures smile with happiness each one with their own unique clothing. The different frames hold a date carved into the wood: 1807, 1810, 1831, and 1802 etc. Every once in a while a picture was replaced with a sconce holding two new candles, but under the sconces laid little puddles of dried wax.