He crossed the porch to the spooky old house and entered through the open front door.
He had felt drawn here. He did not know why.
He took one step into the foyer and stopped cold, chills like icy fingers touched the back of his neck.
Everywhere he looked there were jars. Empty jars. Most with lids on, but some were open.
The open jars made him afraid.
He felt like they wanted to consume him.
He turned and ran out the door, across the porch, down the stairs.
He stopped, looked back.
On the porch sat a broken jar.