‘You have got to be fucking kidding me,’ he thought to himself as he looked up at it. It was on the northern edge of town, nothing for forty metres in any direction but briars, dead grass, and an honest to God spooky swamp the size of a small garden at the back where the property met the wall, separating it from a rather run down part of town that seemed to have a collection of abandoned houses. The house itself was entirely wooden, rotten, and black with age, its stained wood groaning under its own weight with yawning, irregular window frames with mismatched shutters that flapped and clashed against the wind. A crooked, gnarled, dead tree, blacker than sin, grew out from the side of the hill, its empty branches reaching skyward like vengeful claws and a lone, forlorn swing hung from its branches on one solitary rope, the other having rotted away. All it needed was some lightning to flash in the background and a wolf howling in the distance and it’d be the archetypical, cartoonish home for the local neighbourhood vampire.