The town I grew up in was divided into two sections: the downtown commerce area, which was at the base of a hill, and a residentual area, which sat on top of the hill.
Two main roads, dotted with homes, wound their way through a forest that covered the side of the hill.
The forest had a path us kids took when going up or down the hill and about halfway through, was a clearing with two red shacks in the middle of it.
We never knew who owned the area, but the lawn was always mowed and the shacks were blood red with white trimming.
The shacks were more like one-car garages although at the time they were filled with aniquated junk that my friends and I enjoyed rummaging through.
One day we were doing just that and, finding nothing of interest, decided to have a rest outside on the lawn that circled the shacks.
As we sat down, we heard noises coming from the shack we had just been in. The windows were too small for anyone to climb through and no one could have entered the door we had closed up and now sat in front of.
As we watched, the door shook and it sounded like someone was throwing things at it. A metal water pitcher (the kind used to water flowers) flew past one of the windows and then we heard someone grunting, as if trying to lift a heavy object.
The grunting grew louder and more angry then suddenly someone was pounding on the door from the inside, making it shake.
A wooden latch was all that held the door shut and before it could slip out of place, my friends and I ran back through the woods and quickly made our way downtown.
It has been years since I have been to my home town, but the last time I went I happen to check out the forest, where we made forts and played when younger. The clearing is still there and the grass is still mowed, but the two shacks had burnt down; two black piles of burnt wood and ash the only evidence they had ever been there in the first place.