Ah yes, I remember this photo. The good old days. Back when the squeaky floorboards and rotting wood were enough to scare the pants off anyone. We didn't need fake moaned with cheap plastic blood to jump out of a closet, or axe murderers with rusty masks. No, we didn't need any gimmicks. We were the proud old mansions on the top of the hill, where the clouds never left and the shivers you got weren't because of the constant wind. Where the shutters were creaking and falling off, and the front steps had holes where the wood had decayed. The house where children dared each other to spend the night, and made up tales of the grizzly deaths happening within. Where your flashlight went out the instant you stepped inside. Where the old furniture sent out clouds of dust that seemed to choke you. Where the dead scraggily trees scratched against the windows, every noise and image twisting in your mind, until you couldn't stand it anymore and you sprinted outside, screaming at the top of your lungs that there was something inside that spooky old house, right into your friends, who had been watching you the whole time. They'd call you a coward, and you'd walk away laughing, leaving the house on the hill behind you...those were the glory days.