The rickety and torn up old house sits on a hill in the foggy woods. The two trees sprouting through the windows look like evil hands with fingers too long. The screams of a war long passed through still heard. The death of the family that once lived still seems to haunt the house. The moans and groans and countless broken bones of the soldiers and the farmer who fought bravely for his home still seem to be heard. As you sit on a broken plow you wonder who would have done that. You wonder if the farmer had been a soldier. You sit and wonder on the plow and think about the family.