The machine was tearing it down. Reducing the old house to a pile of brick and boards. The damp November air smelled of mortar and dust. It reared up like some prehistoric beast before slamming down in a thunderous crash.
It had been alive once, built by a proud, newly wealthy family. Two generations of children ran through its halls; shouting, clamoring, playing. Then the elderly lived here, telling stories of their younger days.
A small crowd watched the machine do its work. No one remembered the good times. The house had been abandoned, unloved but not empty. It had been a crack house-- filled with a perverse life. Now it was a memory. Soon nothing would remain but the trees.
