The house is deep in the woods. The main road lies behind, forgotten, distant; the seclusion of the place is amazing. It is hard to believe that anyone lives here, in this dark abyss. The light is dim and menacing. Around us, leaves and sticks crack and strange, eerie noises emanate from who knows what.

I don't see the house until we're practically right on top of it. The forest is so close – practically a jungle – that it obscures the small, two-story house until you get within fifty feet. It sits there, nestled between the trees, and it just…looms, as though it's taller than it really is. The windows on the top floor seem larger, too, although this is not an illusion. They are actually at least two feet wider and longer than the average viewing window.

We walk up to the house, over grass that it quite obviously dead, and knock on the door. There is no answer. I knock again, feeling the peeling paint of the door under my fist. Again, there is no answer. One of us checks the windows, but heavy curtains have been drawn over all of them. Nothing on the inside can be seen from the exterior.

I wonder, helplessly, how we'll get in. Then, all of a sudden, the four of us were standing there, the door clicked open a few centimeters, as though brushed by an invisible wind that was only strong enough to open it a crack. Scared, I push the door open the rest of the way, and we walk inside.

The front hall is lit only by the dim light flooding in through the front door. The paint on the wall is old, scratched, and beginning to fade and peel. A single, solitary yellow raincoat, bent and wrinkled and slashed up, rests on a crooked coat hook on the wall, next to several more such coat hooks, all in varying states of disarray. I decide, as do my companions, to keep my coat on.

We leave the front door open and venture down the hall, past the rickety-looking stairs, into what must be a kitchen. There is light here – coming from the refrigerator. Through small cracks in the door, light flickers out. I don't want to know what's in that refrigerator – the cracks couldn't be keeping all the cool air in – but what really bothers me, after a moment, is that there can't physically be electricity here. The power that's lighting up the refrigerator must be coming from somewhere, but it isn't coming from the usual sources.

We turn right and walk through a heavy, creaking door from the kitchen into the dining room. Whilst the other rooms, and the house in general, had an air of oldness, lack of upkeep, this room has obviously not been used in decades. The table is still set – plates, glasses, utensils, even napkins. A single candle sits in the middle of the table, burned out ages ago. Spider webs crisscross between everything on the table and between the walls. There is a layer of dust on the floor that is an inch thick. There is still food on their plates and drink in their cups, although I don't want to examine that too closely. One of the chairs is overturned; all the places, although intact, seem as though they were abandoned in a hurry. We walk through the dining room, leaving footprints in the dust and cutting our way through the spider webs. The door on the other side is stuck – it hasn't been moved in years. We push through, hard, and I hear one of the ancient brass hinges shriek and crack. We find ourselves back in the entry hall.

The front door closed, probably by itself again. There's light though – it's coming from under the crack leading into the last room on this floor that we had not yet explored – the living room. Hesitantly, I push through the door into the living room.

Inside is a couch a comfortable chair, both pointing at a TV set that is not visibly connected to the wall. The couch is patched with duct tape in some places; those that are not taped look faded. The carpeting is full of old dust and dirt. The chair's left arm is ripped, leaving a bit of it's stuffing lolling out and dangling above the floor. The TV is on – that is where the light was coming from. On the screen is a man, standing in front of a used car. He's a salesmen – you can see the tie and the usual salesman-style smirk – but he keeps repeating, over and over, the same line.

"Only nineteen…only nineteen…only nineteen…"

After a moment of examining the TV, it becomes obvious that it's a recording, and it keeps skipping back to the same part. Then, I get a chill. I'm nineteen; we all are.

Whoever lives here is crazy.