"It's just old plaster walls and a roof a few years away from leaking. You see the house out there across a field of blue grass. A tire swing swaying under an ancient oak speaks to you of lemonade summers.
Upon closer inspection you see the furniture inside, coated in dust and festooned in cobwebs. Maybe the old sideboard reminds you of holiday servings. Maybe the dining table tells a story of grace spoken and bread broken. Maybe the animal nest in the corner makes notice of the passage of time. Maybe the meal left on the plate in the kitchen serves to remind you that all things turn to curruption in time.
The house is old but she holds a sort of pride. "I've been here before you, and I'll be here when you're gone." Maybe the floorboards creak and the pipes groan and the old stains on the carpet tell you a certain sad truth about the roof's real state of repair. Maybe the unmade bed whispers medeocrities and sighs like an unsatisfied lover.
Maybe the waters been shut off and the furnace is as cold as a welldigger's ass and maybe the pipes are groaning anyway. Maybe the floor boards are creaking and that evening breeze is gone with the last rays of the sun. Maybe the dresser drawers are open and their contents rustle like mummy wrappings. Maybe the belt hanging in the closet looks like a monsters tongue lapping out of the darkness towards those mystery stains.
Maybe houses come alive and eat their owners."