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My house has chicken legs. Two or three times a year, without warning, it stands up in the middle of the night and walks away from where we've been living. It might walk a hundred miles or it might walk a thousand, but where it lands is always the same. A lonely, bleak place at the edge of civilization. The house nestles in the dark forbidden woods behind villages, rattles on the windswept icy tundra, and hides in the crumbling industrial ruins at the far edge of cities.

At the moment it's perched on a rocky plateau high in some barren mountains. We've been here two weeks and I still haven't seen anyone living. Dead people, I've seen plenty of those of course. They come to visit Baba and she guides them through The Gate. But the real live living people, they all stay in the town and villages far below us.
Maybe if it was summer a few of them would wander up here, to picnic and look at the view. They might smile and say hello. Someone my age could visit, maybe a whole group of children on their holidays. They might stop near the stream and splash in the water to cool off. Perhaps they would invite me to join them.