Around it, the garden had been neglected for years; the tall bushes grew in disorder like a jungle, the grass, reaching high above the ground, like a deep sea one could dive in. No flowers survived, no tree gave fruits anymore. The leaves covered the first two steps that led to the main door, extending halfway the porch, climbing up the thin wood columns that supported the entrance roof. All the wood was rotten, from the tricky steps of the front door to the broad beams of the attic. The rusty door locks had been untouched for decades, all the doors being ajar, but the knobs remaining unmoved since there were no beings entering or leaving.

The house was neither protected nor attacked: there was nothing to steal from it. All the family goods had been removed long ago, the jewels of the past owners had gone with them, the remaining furniture being old and damaged. The humidity and cold had grown mushrooms inside the living room, popping from the corners of what used to be a colored carpeted floor, extending up the walls all the way to the high ceiling.

White clothes hid the few pieces of furniture that lay still, abandoned within these quiet walls. A thick layer of dust had covered the entire picture, from basement to attic, from garden to chimney �a layer of dust and silence.

Nobody ever trespassed the gate.

Beyond the fence it was safe to stroll, but within the family property neighbors did not set foot.

After almost twenty years of advertisement nobody had yet ventured to buy the forsaken house. It needed too much repairing, too much money and effort to fix the marks of time, the wounds of the past, and too much courage to chase the ghosts away.

The spirit of Great Grandpa wandered the place. It was like this that the town had called old Ben. He had been the oldest member of the family, the one who had put together the house over a century ago.

In that house he had raised three children and had seen them go. In the red room of the great house he had spent most of his life. He had ceased to sleep in it after mourning his wife in the very same bed they had shared for so long, on the very same red covers that had warmed them both since their wedding night. And on that same bed his own daughter had spent her wedding night after she had worn her mother�s veil, when he gave her away at the altar.

In that very same room he had kept his grandkids when his daughter filed divorce and needed to send them with him while she straightened out her broken marriage.

In that very same room, his daughter had closed her eyes, the first time she went to visit her children, and was brought into the house by a policeman that found her on the road under her crashed car, while she desperately begged to be taken home with papa and the kids, instead of the hospital, claiming she could not rest in peace without seeing her little ones one last time. The creatures were asleep when old Ben had carried her upstairs to the room and places her on the red covers of the great bed, where she had caressed their little heads for the last time.

In that great red bed the kids had slept through their childhood, after old Ben was granted custody, due to his son-in-law�s criminal records.

The entire town had seen the kids grow up playing in the garden, running around the neighborhood, calling after Grandpa, who accompanied them everywhere. But the ungrateful kids grew up and flew, leaving the old man alone once more, alone with the great house that no longer carried the laughter of young voices. And for ten more years he was bound to stay alone, forgotten, until his granddaughter returned one day, ill, sad, worn out, carrying a new born child on one arm and a small suitcase on the other. And he took them in, with no scorn and no resent.

He took care of her during her last days and saw the third generation die before his eyes, as the young woman lied on the red bed that had nestled her childhood.

In spite of his age, he took care of the baby, being the last trace of family he still had left. She was raised in the same room that had belonged to her mother; lulled in the great bed where she heard the stories her grandpa told her every night. The room had been kept through the years exactly as it was, with its red carpet, the red velvet curtain and rosewood chairs and night table, and the little girl found even her mothers toys still lying in the closet.

The red room was the best in the house. It had the finest carved furniture, the softest velvet covers, the most beautiful mirrors that reflected the pink walls, bathed in sunshine. Old Ben never forgot to bring a fresh flower for the red vase on the table, and, each day, as his little girl would wake up, she would feel the morning breeze coming in through the window mixed with the perfume of a red blossom by her bed.

But one morning, after a prolonged case of measles, the little eyes didn�t wake up anymore. She had not yet seen her fourth spring but the old eyes had witnessed four generations of loved ones leave him without good-bye and it was more than any human heart can take.

He rested on the red bed that night, embracing the little rag doll he had not had the heart of burying along with the child, and wept the entire night, before he died, quietly, in his sleep.

There was no will, and no relatives to take possession, nobody to occupy the space where the unhappy family had crumbled.

Only a few kids had broke in sometimes to steal peaches from the garden, but they had ran off when they spotted a pale bearded face watch them from the window, from behind the red curtains. Ever since, nobody had dared to cross the garden gates. The red room grew a sinister legend; every single member of the family had died on the same bed.

Those that passed by claimed they heard the old man weeping in the garden, or saw shadows moving inside, always in the same room, or climbing the stairs toward that direction. Sometimes the windows were open in the morning, and some said the climbed a tree to peek inside from afar and saw a fresh cut flower in the red vase on the night table, but nobody stayed long enough to have a good look, always afraid of spotting the pale face appear in the window.

It was a small town where people liked to talk and legends grew fast. But foreigners didn�t believe those gossips, and Annie laughed them off when the caf� waitress told her the whole story.

Annie was a city girl, passing by on her way to visit some country folks, and had scared everybody to death when she had walked in the main store asking for a map. The owner had stared in disbelief at her brown hair and round cheeks, her deep eyes and pointed chin. She looked exactly like the picture in the local cemetery �the picture of old Ben�s wife, posted on her grave, beside the picture of her daughter, that looked exactly like her, a few years younger �the exact picture her granddaughter would have looked at her age, the same age and face the great granddaughter would have by then.

A couple of women screamed when they saw her on the street, but she thought them all ridiculous.

Annie had planned to drive all night, after she had left the caf�, but she was too tired from a very long trip, and it was late already. She had bravely started on the wheels, but after a couple of miles, she had to admit she wouldn�t make it without a nap. There was no hotel in the town, and while she was thinking about slipping in the back seat for a nap, she passed the town border where the old house was.

Since nobody lived there and the place was unlocked she made up her mind to rest a little, since, a smart city girl like her wouldn�t be frightened by ghost tales.

It was a bit creepy to make her way through the high grass that tangled around her ankles, like invisible hands popping from the ground to hold her back and prevent her from reaching the door, that made a moaning sound as she pushed it carefully. Feeling a twinge of cold fear as she stepped into the living room, her mind advised her to leave the door open, for any eventuality.

Not that she believed in spooky stuff, but her practical brain warned her against the living, that were a much more solid danger. A deserted isolated house was a perfect hiding place for any criminal or lunatic. And, even if she wasn�t expecting to see any specter around, the thought of sleeping alone in a stranger house where so many people had died wasn't exactly lovely. But she consoled with the idea that a serial killer wouldn�t stick around for twenty years to attack the same house, after it had been empty so long.

She only hoped no rapist or murderer would pass by and have the same idea of sleeping there for the night.

As Annie had expected, the electricity was out, so she lit a match and looked around to make sure there were no rats or similar life forms to crawl on her during her sleep and crunched on the sofa, wrapping herself with the white clothe that covered the furniture, after brushing the dust off.

As the match went out she glanced around, with an uneasy feeling.

It was big and empty with a very high ceiling and black staircase. She was relieved the paintings were covered too, but she could almost feel the portraits observe her from behind the dusty clothes.

The sofa was rather hard but she didn�t bring herself to go upstairs to find a bed, preferring to stay close to the door, where she could hear the sound of the street, and make a quick escape if needed.

The light of the full moon peeked in giving the entire living room a pale blue shade. A bright light shone on the ceiling, moving from side to side, reflecting on the crystal candelabra above: it was a car passing by.

Annie brushed away any ghostly thoughts and closed her eyes resolved to sleep.

When she opened them again the morning sun was shining through the curtains and the silence had been replaced by the sound of cheerful birds.

She felt great relief that the night was over and she was free to go away. Stretching hard she pushed the cover aside and, still stretching, walked to the mirror to fix her hair a little before she continued her ride.

As she looked at the reflection on the glass, her sleepy eyes caught sight of the image behind her and opened wide, as a violent throbbing of her heart made all her limbs cold. With a gasp she turned around in disbelief, to confirm the picture on the mirror.

There it was: the bed neatly folded, with only the cover pushed aside and the red pillow wrinkled where she had rested her head, the rosewood night table beside it, with a fresh flower in the vase on top of it, the red curtains the morning breeze bleu softly aside, waving the red clothe of the table beside the window.

She had woken up in the red room�