There is something not right about the house. It is too tall or too thin or the walls are at improbable angles.

Nothing seems as it should, and nobody who enters is ever seen leaving.

You can hear them go in, then a cry, some clattering, a groan. Silence.

The neighbors say the house always was there. Some say the Germans built it, some the English.

You never can tell whether people really vanished. Maybe they left by an attic, or a basement.

Perhaps there is a back door and they rejoined the crowd in front, pretending dismay at their own disappearance.

I believe each of us will enter the house one day. It is possible that some of us already have, but do not remember.

I was mistaken, that is not a crowd in front. It is a queue, and I am next.