“We do not see things as they are; we see things as we are.”

– Anais Nin, French essayist and memoirist

“This is it?” asked Vince. “Doesn’t look like much to me.”

The old house didn’t seem as imposing as I had remembered it being. Over the years, I had entertained my buddy Vince with tales of the old two-storey “mansion” that stood alone near the river a few miles from our farm. I had told him in ominous tones how the family had suddenly departed – for reasons unknown – leaving behind many fascinating and disturbing possessions. Moreover, how – left unattended for a few minutes – I had wandered into the dark and foreboding structure as a child, nearly falling into a water-filled cellar.

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