Dark House

It is night. The moon is full and bright. A late model sedan creeps down the deserted street and then drives on. At the end of the block is a house. A house with one, lone window lit up against the darkness.

Nobody in the neighborhood knows who lives in that house. Though lights do come on some nights, other nights the house is dark and gives off a feeling of neglect. Emptiness. Barrenness. The children whisper about the house, say it’s haunted, that monsters live there, that it is cursed. They never venture too close to it, not even on a double-dog dare, so not even they know what secrets it holds inside.

A solitary man approaches the house and pauses before the closed door. He seems reluctant to raise his fist to knock, but eventually he does. Nothing happens for a heartbeat. Two. And then the door slowly opens.

Who does he see behind that door?