But, while the house had been built to withstand the weathering of scores upon scores of years, humans aren't built with the same degree of fortitude, and the couple who had built the house soon succumbed to the ultimate disintegration that is the end of the human condition. This ushered in a new era, and the beginning of a long string of owners, while the house sat on its small pinnacle and looked down upon the changing sights of the peninsula and the bay.

Indeed, a great number of people down the years had the image of the house's façade as the tantamount image of "home" in their heads: the front porch, the three slightly akimbo steps that descended from it to the dirt trail; even the surrounding boughs and the slight oak that served as punctuation to the front yard. All those who held this image (and its meaningfulness) were, naturally, unaware of the long line of previous tenants who held the exact same image, and had likewise deemed it home.

The house itself remained, for the most part, unchanged by the inhabitants that entered and exited through its front door. The only inhabitants that did make substantial changes were those who came from beneath. For, while the original builders had been successful in constructing a sturdy house, they had been lenient in terms of measurements for walls and rooms, which resulted in pockets and cavities all throughout the building. Or, maybe, the builders had been endowed with foresight and a touch of compassion, for these open spaces were ultimately put to a useful purpose.

For even while the original couple had sat aging on the porch, a small host of what looked for all the world like four-legged tarantulas had moved inside the outer wall and set up a clean and tidy little area for themselves. As the years progressed, this clan thinned as various individuals moved on to other pastures; but their space was taken up by another insular little family: a long-lived brood that had emerged from deep underground to try out the possibilities of viewing the world from a different angle.

And so it went. New owners came and left, and outside in the surrounding area more buildings -- newer and not quite as sturdy -- began to flourish, and the landscape under the house's gaze changed and grew more cluttered. To those inside the walls, little of this mattered, and a strange and curious community began to thrive, completely unbeknownst to those who lay their heads down every night, merely a foot removed, and thought themselves safe and alone in a home entirely their own.

Years continued apace, and ideas hatched about tearing down the house from time to time; yet, oddly, they never seemed to get very far past the original idea stage. It was always as if the house was protected in some phantasmic fashion. On the flip side of that, although it was easily the oldest building in the region, no historical society had ever latched onto the house as a landmark of any kind of significance.

It was as if the house merely wanted to be left alone. And thus it was down even more seasons and years. The strange little underground family that had migrated up angled themselves back down into the earth again, having decided that a century of this kind of apartment was enough for now. A young man suffered a ghastly revelation concerning his family heritage in the house's steepled attic. Another tenant went mad and disappeared into the wilderness, leaving the house empty for nearly a year until the next occupants arrived.

And yet, in the deepest hour of the night, in the right kind of lighting, it is even now possible to see what no tenants, either inside the walls or in between them, has ever glimpsed: the animated countenance of the house shifting as it surveys its domain.

Shifting into an expression that can oft-times be spotted on especially old trees: a watchful, contemplative expression, bespeaking a decision that is a ways away still in the arriving.
G10a(5)