I hardly know where to start. How do you put such terror into words to expecting readers who may never have experienced a fraction of such extraordinary horror. I am unable to refer to this as ‘a story’ as it goes much deeper than that of a progressive tale with happy ever afters. What you are about to read is real; the feelings and emotions have been lived, the fear felt. This is a narrative of the events which took place across a century; 1903 to 2002 in a house which stood closely among others and for many years shared the usual comforts of ‘home’. Similarly to the other buildings down the same street this house once felt safe, it was a comfortable home which had evolved into a dark, emptiness of which the house of Poultney Roads’ residents would never forget. It became hidden away from what it once was and instead emerged as a building of strong, solid bricks which concealed more secrets than the usual family has combined. I am not writing this in an attempt to scare my readers but yet to inform them of what exists whether they wish to believe it or not. This is not a fictional novel, created to shock and leave you in suspense but is instead a retelling of what happened to several generations of a family who had lived their lives as any other but was introduced to, quite literally, another world. I guess you could take this as a warning that you should believe more of what you read instead of waiting to see for yourself. Seeing is believing some might say but reading this could prepare you for something you may not have ever considered and prevent you from the pain that that this house bought to so many. So sit back and turn the side light on. The beam may possibly comfort you through this roller-coaster of memories which have left their mark on everyone who entered The House on Poultney Road.