The house must have been over a hundred years old, fraying at the edges, corners crumbling quietly when no one was looking.
Every time we walked past, the sorry sight of the dilapidated home would grab us by the throat and our eyes would scan the ramshackle building for the vestiges of the happy home that had disintegrated into debris. At the same time something equally terrifying would make us quickly look away.
Nobody ever stepped into the grounds of overgrown weeds that circumscribed the house, but if we happened to walk past it at night-time, we could sometimes see a little warm globule of light shining warmly in the opaque blackness of the night.
People in the village mostly thought it was a little orb of a long-forgotten spirit. Better avoided than confronted, they said.
It was useful, that light, even if the sight of it meant we had to walk away from it, and not towards it.
I sometimes like to think it served as a beacon for lost souls.