A leaky faucet drips into an empty sink, the droplets echoing into a house full of forgotten furniture and memories. Dust has started to gather, pulled through the rooms by straying winds that cause the back door to sway hectically from its hinges. In a place where life has seemingly fled, it is hard to catch ones breath. At least, that is how it felt to me standing there in that very moment. Air trapped between my mouth and my lungs, afraid to inhale, afraid to exhale. Afraid that whatever came and stole life from this place would sense me here, rise up and take life away again. Reason tells me I'm being ridiculous, but I hold on just one more moment to the ghostlike image in my brain before letting it go. What happened here wasn't the work of some phantom. It was the work of man. The bodies have been carried away, the innocent mourned and the guilty judged. But no one has returned to this place since then until now. With a hand steadier than I expected, I reach out to give the faucet a twist and bring the soft dripping to an end. There is nothing that can be done to silence the door, short of ripping it from the frame. Tempted as I am, I move from the kitchen and shine the flashlight's beam into the other room...