Abandoned train stations, old barns, houses like this write their own stories.

How fast did the fall come. On one hour, on one day, did one single event cause everything that once was solid and stable to fall, leaving only ruin. Everything has a breaking point. Maybe time is just abrasive and caustic.

What caused the roof to fall and the doors to come off their hinges and the water to find its way into the cracks in the foundation.

Did the last one to close the door turn away and shed a tear, remembering the front porch decorated with Christmas lights, or men sitting in the backyard smoking cigarettes and drinking beer on a steamy forth of July night; blowing off fire crackers, while kids made those swirls with sparklers. Did they remember pumpkins and red and yellow leaves and ghouls and witches in the fall; shoveling snow from the driveway on freezing-cold winter days.

Was it the violence of poverty that lead to the collapse, or the violence of man. Did the owner simply pass away, and the property left to the wind and snow and the taxman.

On the last day were there police cars and ambulances in the driveway… or did the last one, on the last day, simply walk away, without a bother to lock the door.

I find a strange beauty in the ugliness of this place. There is a story here. Standing outside as the sun sets, I can’t tell if I hear the hollow laughter of the ghosts that haunt this place, or the wind.