There is a house where no one lives.
Nobody wants to live there, because the eyes of it watch you in all you do. There are eyes that no one can see, the eyes that always see you.
There is a yard where nobody walks. There is no one to cut the grass in the yard, and not a single person steps in, not even once.
Nobody steps in, because there are dead things. There are headstones, carved with dates and names, and there is flat grey dirt in front of each headstone. Nobody wants to cut through that yard, that yard with the grey dirt and the grey stone and the sharp grey grass.
In this yard that nobody cuts through, behind the house where nobody lives, there are crows, and they watch you.
There are crows because there are graves, and these crows hop along the skeletal branches of the trees next to the graves. They tilt their heads, and they watch you with their fathomless black eyes. They watch, because they know if you step in, you are in their territory.
You don’t want to be in their territory.