You move past thickets and the remains of trees felled by countless Catskill storms. Ahead you can see the outlines of a graying and decaying structure. It appears to be a barn. To the left of the barn, partially obscured by decades of overgrowth, is a small wreck of a house. Giant spider webs, infinitely intricate, stretch out in window frames long barren of glass.
Bugs amass in throng, ablanket of life moving and pulsing on rotted wood and peeling shingles.
A single remaining hinge holds on the screen door, and one decent gust of wind will send it spiraling off to the woods. You step back to consider the scene and decide it's what Dorothy's Kansas farm might have looked like if it had been hit by the big one. Now half your group has moved inside, and you follow reluctantly, your breath shallow in your chest, suddenly very aware that your heart is slightly racing because you can feel it just beneath your throat. It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust. What little light there is seems cut in random patterns along the peeling oilcloth floor and faded wallpaper.