You can see them everywhere, in certain towns and cities.
The houses that were caught when mortgages failed and never resold.
The houses that were owned and unused, home to dust and fires.
The houses that were abandoned, when the land became too much, and were slowly reclaimed by the forest around them.
There is something poignant and frightening about an empty house.
In the ones that are still whole, there is a feeling of a life paused, held still on a caught breath.
Of a dream waiting and fading, underneath the unwavering march of years.
I write these houses into my stories.
They are not always houses.
But the stories we tell are only corners of much larger, breathing worlds.
Their shells visible in passing.
Their vitality flashing and slowly decaying in the corner of my words.
Sometimes I turn to them directly, fascinated by their passage.
There is power in the forgotten.
There is power in a moss-covered doorstep, leading nowhere.
In addition to writing blog posts with empty houses, I have also written a fantasy novel, The Guests of Honor. It is available here.