There once was a man of white who was lord to sixteen houses slapped together all in a row. His eyes scarred and shone like ice and his smile could freeze a flower. Like a shadow he clung stickily to the walls of the basement of house number 8. 4 young women lived in that house. Once. He like the sight of them. He stole their skins, snapping off photographs, shooting them slight glances behind his camera. He like the sight of those young women. He sought to turn them into dolls. Sometimes scratching could be heard behind the walls of house number 8. The 4 young women saw in their minds and old shriveled crone stuck behind the walls scratching her nails across plaster and wood and dust. But it was just really a squirrel which died and began to rot and reek and the attic filled with flies, descendants of the fliest that feasted on the flesh of that squirrel who scratched the attic walls as it died. There once was a fire in that attic and the ice man kissed one of the girls of house number 8. Once there was a house with bricks like teeth and cracks through which the wind would whisper icy secrets in icy breath and out of the corners of rooms and walls the echoes of life could be heard.