Half an hour later, we all skidded to a stop where the route and the sidewalk ended. Beyond was the old Mitchelson house, a boarded-up Victorian mansion sitting on a weed-strewn parcel of land that backed onto the river. Rumor was, the place was haunted. Under the cold, clouded moonlight, with a bitter wind making the dead leaves chatter and the skeleton trees dance, we could all believe it.
“Hey, there’s a light on inside!” Curtis yelped, pointing at the eerie, dilapidated house.