Deep in the woods, there was a house, it was not a large house, nor was it a small house, but medium. The house was part of a small farm, behind it sat an old barn, the roof collapsed, the doors hanging from rusty hinges, windows gaping black in the place where glass once stood. Posts remained sticking up from the ground like bones where a fence once stood.

The house deep in the woods had not seen the love of a family in over twenty years, it sat, windows broken, porch sagging, door open and ajar. The floorboards were warped and had seedlings growing from the cracks between them. The metal roof, once bright aluminum, now was rusted orange.

Inside, the kitchen sink was black from mildew growing from the pipes, the cabinets lay open, home to creatures aplenty, their little straw nests in the corners of the shelves. The old refrigerator sat askew, the floor beneath it buckled under its weight. The chairs lay on their sides, legs having rotted away, the kitchen table stood alone, triumphant in its survival amount the bones of its brethren.

The sitting room lay in shambles, paper pages from the long gone books littered the floor, a fox had made its home in the long cold fireplace. The chairs sat, angled from missing legs, holes torn into the cushions from various rodents nesting in their stuffings. Glass mixed with rotting leaves and pages across the floorboards.

In the hall, the stairs were rotted, the steps unable to support their own weight had fallen from the frames. The frame now stood like a skeleton without its skin, longing to be whole again.

Upstairs, the hall was a sad viewing of the lives of those who once lived there, photos of the family, parents, children, pets, still hung on the walls, frames warped and broken, the photos yellowed and water stained with time. Toys lay on what once been a carpet down the length of the hall.

In the bedrooms, mattresses had rotted to the springs. Blankets and pillows nothing but scraps on their carcasses. Dressers lay broken, drawers ripped from their frames, mirrors broken with age. The lamps lay shattered on the floors, knocked over by haste or wind, it was hard to say. In the children's room, plastic and metal toys lay sunbleached with chipped paint and broken pieces, the play rug nothing now buy a filthy square on the floor.

The attic alone lay untouched, only the spiders and their cobwebs having ever touched its contents. The house was a relic of its time and a tomb to its belongings. She stood alone, defiant against time and its onslaught of cruelty. To look at her, in all her glory was like looking at an old woman, she was beautiful in her age and history, yet sad that time had battered her to that state.

The house, deep in the woods was an old beauty that, although time still knew, the world had forgotten. But I still knew her, I knew the way her doors creaked in the breeze, I knew the way the chimes that still hung from the porch rafters chimed to the breezes' gentle caress. I knew the way the house always smelled like spring and wildness, and I knew how the tree branches bounced with each swing of the tree swing.

I saw the house for her beauty, and I reveled in her defiance, astounded by her haunting beauty and the stores she held.

Deep in the woods, there was a house, it was a medium-sized house, with lots of stories to tell, all you had to do was listen.