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CREPPY HOUSE

Amidst the rolling hills and forgotten landscapes, a dilapidated house stands as a silent witness to the relentless march of time. The air is thick with a palpable stillness, broken only by the distant rumble of thunder that reverberates through the desolation.

The forgotten house, its wooden frame weathered and worn, seems frozen in a perpetual state of abandonment. The paint, once vibrant, has long surrendered to the elements, leaving behind a palette of muted grays and browns. As the dark clouds gather overhead, the thunder provides an ominous backdrop to the haunting scene.

The windows, if they remain, are shattered or boarded up, denying any glimpse into the secrets held within. The roof, a skeletal structure of timeworn shingles, barely shields the interior from the impending storm. Nature has claimed its territory, with vines and weeds snaking their way around the forsaken structure, intertwining with the memories that linger within.

Approaching the entrance, the creaking door, a relic of a bygone era, sways with the rhythm of the encroaching wind. The interior, bathed in an eerie half-light, is a museum of forgotten moments. Dust particles dance in the intermittent flashes of lightning, revealing fragments of abandoned furniture covered in faded sheets.

The thunder intensifies, a symphony of power that echoes the house’s forsaken existence. The air crackles with energy, mirroring the tension of memories left unspoken. As the first raindrops fall, they find their way through the broken ceiling, a melancholic reminder of the house’s vulnerability.

In the midst of the storm, the forgotten house stands as a poignant metaphor for the passage of time, its once vibrant history now reduced to whispers carried by the wind. The thunder, a somber chorus, accentuates the solitude of this forsaken place, where memories linger like ghosts in the shadows.

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