There was a house, down Fern Grove, they said, that wasn’t there. Number 32, to be exact. The house was just gone, leaving the gaping hole where it used to be like the gap in which a tooth used to belong, surrounded by shiny perfect white teeth, much like the other houses in the street placed a perfectly straight row, each one an exact replica of the others. Except for Number 32, that is. New People stopped and stared at the space the house should have been as they passed. Local people hurried past, ignoring it, but not really ignoring it, dragging their curious children along, so as not to get caught up in the things that happened in a place with no house.

There where ghosts, it was said, at Number 32. There where voices, but no people. Sounds of life, laughter, footsteps, the sweet soft melody of a little girl singing as she prowled around the empty space between 30 and 34.
The house itself gave of in inviting aroma, as if it had something hidden inside that it wanted you to see. The ghost was doing it, they said. A siren song, a lure. Like a fishhook. To take their children, they said. To steal their belongings. To cause them harm, bad luck, hurt and sadness. To haunt them for ever and ever.
The children who lived in 34 could see this was a silly adult myth. The laughter of that girl was not maniacal. Her footsteps bounced in a dance to her song, the tune of which was a beautiful story of joy and love and life which needed no words to be true.
And no matter how much the children from 34 were told to stay away from Number 32, they could not.

Fern Grove was a place of order, discipline, and many, many, many rules. It was a place of cleanliness, tidiness, never-late-ness, and most importantly, perfection. The paths where strait as rulers, everything was sparkling clean, and every doorknob was polished every hour on the hour. Gardens where strictly banned, for fear of dirt getting on the pavement, or on the underside of people’s shoes. The only grass, if any, was plastic, the only flowers fake, and the artificial pond in the concrete park was very much artificial. In other words, it was the most boring place you have ever seen. And that’s just how the residents of Fern Grove liked it. Most of them anyway.
For most of the residents of Fern Grove, Number 32 was their downfall. They hated it, loathed it, but where far too cowardly to rebuild the house. The space there seemed wrong. Or perhaps it was too right, too wild, for them to handle.

There did use to be a house, at Number 32. A pristine neat white one, just like the others. Only with a flowerbox in the window. A flowerbox filled beautiful red petals. Real live ones.
They used to say an old man lived there. An old man and his granddaughter. No one ever saw them, though. They were always inside, always hiding. The white curtains where constantly closed, the door locked shut. No one came in, no one came out.
 Criminals, they said. Dirty rotten criminals, in the cleanest strictest place on earth. Why else would they be reluctant to show their faces? Hiding from the law, they said.
The girl was seen once. Only once. At her grandfather’s funeral, they said. It a month after his trial. One month in prison was not nearly enough to pay, they said. Not for what he had done.
The girl went back to her home that night. Alone in the rain, without an umbrella. Salty Tears mingled with the droplets on her cheek. She looked up to the sky and smiled to herself. Free, she thought.
The house was gone the next day.

There where children missing. Vanished from the safety of their concreate backyard. The children from 34. Two little boys, one little girl, so young. Their mother panicked, as any mother should, and there was a search called. A big search. Houses where ransacked, parks where scanned, everything else was forgotten. The hour struck and not a single person polished their doorknob. There was a suspicion, known by everyone but never said out loud.
The children at 34 had been far too interested in Number 32 than was good for them.
By the time the whole street, whole town, had been searched, the sun was leaving the sky in an array of beautiful pinks, reds, and oranges.  The children’s mother leaned against the side fence. She had always tried to stay away from that fence as much as she could manage. She put her ear against the corrugated iron and listened. From the other side, sounds carried in the soft breeze. Four sets of footsteps. Four colourful hearty laughs. Four beautiful voices singing of joy and peace and love and life and adventure.
She sighed, turning away from the fence, and stepping back into the darkness of her unlit house. A house without a home, even a clean, neat white house, even if you polish the door knob every hour, even if you make sure the fake grass is perfection, is just a house. An empty shell of what we are supposed to be. A home without a house… a fantastic lively colourful home, abundant in laughter and joy and all that comes with it.
A home without a house – that’s something special.