The vacant, old house at the end of the lane beckons me. They always do - the dilapidated and forgotten. There is an appeal others overlook.

Unable to resists its quietness, I settle in, deciding to call this place home.

The wind blows through the window cracks, but it doesn't bother me. Oddly, I feel comforted in the chilled corners of the room - a warm welcome of sorts.

Dust adorns the mantel. Cobwebs decorate the bland corners. Layers upon layers of peeling wallpaper reveal the different lives which once occupied this space. These surroundings reassure me this house has been uninhabited for quite some time.

Yes, this will do nicely.

I peacefully exist here for some time before it happens - well-acquainted shivers straightening the hairs on the back of my neck. Doors squeak. Floorboards creak. Once again, I find I am not alone. 

A woman's soft silhouette appears from the corner of my eye. By the time I turn my head, she is gone. The glimpse of her beauty quiets my apprehension and I set out in search of her. As I turn the corner, I spy her gracefully gliding about and I, from a safe distance, follow her from room to room. Her long, flowing hair highlights a beautiful face. If the past had not rendered me afraid of them, it would be hard to resist the urge to reach out and stroke one of her silken strands.

Thankfully, I sense no ill will from her at this time. Maybe I could co-exist with one of them. We could agree to no renovations. Upon gazing at her seemingly peaceful form, I ponder for a moment ... maybe it would be nice to share a space with another.

She continues her exploration, not causing a disturbance really, just quietly, yet methodically, wandering. Finally, she heads up the stairs, pausing as the first step creaks at her.

Who is she? What does she want?

I noiselessly ascend the broken stairs, careful not to alert her to my presence. Despite my uncertainty, curiosity keeps propelling my feet forward. At the top of the stairs, I see her - moving into my room at the end of the hall. My room.

She moves about with a familiarity of the place; her look one of inspection. Finally, she settles into the rocking chair by the bed, slowly rocking back and forth as if waiting for something or someone.

Was this once her home?

I stand just outside the door, peering around the doorframe. After a few moments pass, she does something which shocks me. One of her hands slips inside her low-cut bodice from the top, cupping her breast. At one time, I was a gentleman and know this is not something I should be secretly watching. Yet, I cannot tear my eyes away.

Her untouched nipple visibly responds against the thin material of her dress, reacting to the affections towards its twin. Surprisingly, I feel a strange stirring within myself. What has long been dormant, slowly finds life. 

Soft moans invade the silence to which my ears have grown accustomed. A welcome sound? I decide so. 

Her slow rocking continues as she continues to fondle her breast. With her eyes now shut, I can lean in for a closer look. Her expressive face and her heaving breasts fight for my attention. Then, the scene takes a more intimate turn.

While one hand strokes her breast, the other gathers her dress, bunching it up over her thighs. Slender fingers trace slow circles on her inner thighs, before moving to the center of her passion. My eyes are straining to see every detail between her legs. Pink lips are being tugged by tiny fingers. Intensified moaning awakens my ears. Then, a finger disappears from sight. Her wrist bends back and forth, leaving me wishing I could feel what she is feeling. Oh, how I wish I could feel her. Even if just for one moment, how I wish. 

Her soft moans turn to high-pitched cries as another two of her fingers disappear from my sight. The rocking chair now loudly creaks in tune with her sounds of arousal as her bucking hips increase the speed of the rocking. I know I should not silently watch her private moments, but I truly cannot stop myself. With some shame, I enter the room, silently moving towards her, needing to be closer.

Who is she thinking of as she touches herself so intimately? 

Her lips upturn in such a delightful smile. Maybe this is a past memory she is reliving. Is she trying to mimic someone else's erotic touches from long ago?

I stand and watch. Watch her breathing. Watch her manipulating fingers. Watch her flushing skin. Watch her quivering legs. By the time she screams out her ecstasy, I am a mere inch from her, no longer able to maintain distance from this alluring scene. 

Her eyes flutter open and she gasps, hurriedly covering herself. 

"Hello," I speak with what sounds to me to be a soothing tone.

She stares at me, or more through me, with an ashen face.

"Hello?" I repeat myself, trying to communicate, extending my hand towards her.

Why will they never answer?

Like the others before her, she then flees screaming. I know she will soon return with more of them. And I will, once again, have to find another home.

Don't they understand I just wish for a peaceful place to live?