Salted Nannie

It was old and decrepit and peeling yellow with uneven stairs. It was plain and    
simple out in the country. My sister named it Nannie. Thinking, the house her  
friend along with frogs and box turtles. My mother and father had found it on    
a website that said it was built in the tenderloin. In less than three months my    
sister was talking to Nannie.    
    
Sounds resonated nightly from the walls as if a chorus of demons. Thinking it    
was rats. Dad pulled down several walls, finding droppings and remnants of a    
Winnie the Pooh bear.      
   
My mom was aging before my eyes, with wrinkles and losing her hair. She    
became barren and took up canning mice. I found that rather peculiar since  
we were vegans. Her flesh seemed to be barely hanging on to her bones.    
My four-year-old sister asked her. "Mommie! do you have a Living Will?  
                                       
What shadow the house would make on the ground was fading daily. The
 weeds became the new green and crows roosted on the roof. Aways giving
 the eye as if we were infringing on their nest.    
    
Dad did some digging beneath the house and discovered a tunnel. Seeming to have no end we decided to see where it led. We salted Nannie and discovered...