There once was a lonely black house on the top of a hill overlooking the rest of the neighborhood. It was a house that, for no logical reason, always seemed to exude a particular chill. The daggered iron fence that ran along the unkempt lawn cast a gloomy air, not aided in the slightest by the chipped paint or sagging shutters adorning the ancient house, reflecting years of neglect. Children would ride their bikes faster on this particular block, almost as if they lingered too close to the house they would be sucked inside, never to see the light and joy of the rest of the neighborhood again. Playground balls accidentally hit over the menacing guardian wall were left to wither into deflated plastic pools, for there was no approaching the brooding iron lions guarding the black double-doors and the reclusive neighbor within.