The Winter family move from their Victorian home for a fresh start after their son Danny kills himself in his bedroom. Things are fine, until one day a news report appears saying the new occupants of 211 Whitestone Lane had been brutally murdered. Four days later the investigating officer turns up murdered as well, and 16 year old Dean discovers something horrifying about his former home.
Do you ever feel that the weather seems to match the way you feel? I felt shitty, and the sky had broken to cascades of sharp stinging blades of raindrops. Dark, rolling clouds papered the sky.
I looked intently at the dashboard of the Mercedes Benz Sprinter Van, as if trying to melt the plastic with my eyes.
"You okay, lad?" A voice cut through my concentration. It was my uncle Darren. He looked at me sympathetically, pitying me. Fuck him.
"Fine... i'm fine," I replied, my voice dry and empty of emotion.
We were parked outside of some orange bricked house with disgustingly white plastic framed windows. It was a new house, built at some point in the last ten years. Made from cheap materials and built exactly the same as the one hundred or so identical ones in the housing estate.
"I'm sure we'll be in in a minute, always like this, moving," Darren continued, "You spend weeks packing all your stuff up, then hours putting it into vans and then months finding places for everything. I've got no idea how your going to fit everything from that monster you lived in before in this!"
I just grunted. I'd done a lot of that recently.
He was referring to the house we'd lived in before, the house i'd lived in all my life. My home.
It was a proper house, built at the end of the Victorian era, with thick doors and a creaking staircase and a cellar that felt like it could protect you from an Air Raid, and it probably had done in years gone by. It made me feel safe, and warm. And as I looked out on the pile of bricks and cheap plastic, I began to think how I had ended up here.
"We're in, mate, come on,"