I came upon an old house in my travels. Made of stone and mortar, it was once a place to call home, a bastion against the world. Now though, it was a shadow of itself. The roof was gone, untold years before. Time and the elements had worked their slow decay on walls and doors, until it resembled what I saw before me now.
Walls collapsing or collapsed, doors and windows long turned to dust, it was a shadow of its former self. A tree now ruled this abode, branches pushing through windows, and the crown made a makeshift roof, where a real roof once kept the rain out. Arcane graffiti and voracious creepers now battled for control of the remaining walls. And ghosts, large and small, swooped and darted through the windows and doors, squeezed through the cracks, and glared at me possessively. As if I had come to take this ruined building from them.
As I took another slow step toward the sagging structure, a howl rose from innumerous incorporeal throats, and I thought better. These were sad creatures, I thought, but in large groups and turned to anger, they would make my life unpleasant. I turned away, leaving them to their sad and bedraggled memories.