There was a home, tucked away from the bustling main street of the Newton, Massachusetts, a quaint suburb located a mere five minutes outside of the central hub of Boston. Many of the townspeople treated it with a sort of out of sight, out of mind mentality, and it worked well enough for a majority of them. While it looked unimposing with its soft green exterior, complimentary brown roof, it was impossible for one to admire it without a sinking feeling crawling into the pit of their stomach, lest they were unaware of the stories that haunted the beautifully restored halls. Despite the fact that it sat empty, its halls having been abandoned by anybody but an intermittently scheduled cleaning crew, many were convinced that something still lurked within. It wasn’t clear whether it was malicious or not, but in general folk tended to err on the side of caution and avoided the establishment completely.<br/><br/>On that particular day, however, that wasn’t the case.<br/><br/>A smartly dressed real estate agent was moving at a clipped pace down the sidewalk, a clearly forced smile stretched out across his uncomfortably perfect features. He was approaching a young man who was waiting at the streetside portion of a nicely manicured gravel drive that led into a thin layer of trees. On the other side was a home that the realtor was desperately trying to get off of his hands. It was a relatively pleasant looking abode, the outer shell was modest enough, though it was rather large, and the color a bit gaudy. It was the exquisite details on the interior that the realtor knew had sold the buyer he had procured for it, though he himself was absolutely terrified to enter the thing. He could certainly see the appeal of it; high set ceilings sporting some beautiful woodwork that was definitely reminiscent of the 1800s, original, but refurbished wooden flooring that offered that quintessential creak of old panelling when weight was administered onto it, restored works of art upon the walls. Original stained glass windows offered a delicious pop of color in the duller rooms, sturdy oak doors gave the inhabitant an unrivaled sense of security, fireplaces in every room gave the place an old world charm, amidst plenty of new world amenities like the newly renovated kitchen and bathrooms. Yes, the home was a catch, and the price had been dropped so drastically over the past few years it was practically a steal as well. He could see why it would appeal to someone like the man moving in on that particular day, Rune Alarik Halonen, but simultaneously you wouldn’t catch him dead within it. He had too much history with the place to plead ignorance at that stage, and he knew quite distinctly that there was something off about it. He'd been quite candid with Mr. Halonen about it, and he was so sure of its negative energies that he wouldn’t even offer a walkthrough of the place when Rune had requested it. He’d simply waited by the road as Rune took himself through the historic four bedroom, four and a half bathroom home.<br/><br/>As he closed the distance between himself and the proud new owner of the fantastically refurbished 162 year old building, he noted the clammy feeling that erupted upon his palms simply from being in such close proximity to the property. He was sure that the movers felt it too, though they couldn’t exactly refused to do their jobs in response to the unease brought on by the place. Rune, however, didn’t seem at all affected by the off-kilter nature of their surroundings. It was rather curious to the realtor that, in fact, he seemed rather at ease in a place where other felt faint. The gentleman, named Jonathan Lewinski (though he insisted that his clients call him Jon, just to create an illusion of trust between them), didn’t feel it was his place to question why the man felt so comfortable. The weight of the house was off of his shoulders and, in all honesty, that was all he really gave two shits about.  He waited there just behind the buyer for a few moments, watching as he interacted briefly with two men who were about to haul a mattress up the pathway and into the building. When his attention was freed, however, Jonathan pounced.<br/><br/>“Mr. Halonen, it’s a pleasure to see you again! Glad to see you’re already on your way to settling in,” the man greeted overenthusiastically, a great big grin encapsulating his features as he reached out and firmly shook the beautiful young mans hand. “I’ve just come to hand over the last of the paperwork, and the full set of keys to you.” He drew a carefully folded stack of paperwork from his pocket, alongside a ring of shiny new keys and he held all of it out towards the young man. “I’m delighted that the home worked out well for you, Sir. I wish you all the best of luck with it.”<br/><br/>From up the path there was a sudden commotion that took over the attention of the realtor. He looked extremely bothered to have to be so near to the house again, and the men that were hurrying down the path looked to be even more so. In response to the commotion the man blurted out only moments later, “Well, I have business to attend to! I had best be going. It was a pleasure working with you, Mr. Halonen.” He shook the man’s free hand once again, though this time the exchange was much more abrupt. He the. turned and hurried down the walkway, beyond relieved to finally be free of whatever horrors haunted the halls of 238 West Street.