He didn't smoke, but it was one of those nights where he really felt like he should. LIke the setting for some grand old shiver film or detetctive movie. He turned up the collar of his coat uncertainly at the gust of wind as he walked, jumping at the sound of the wind pounding the house into a sound like crude laughter.
"...Definitely a spook flick." He muttered, pausing to eye the place criticly.
HIs name was Falkner graves, a photographer who made a partial living doing a website for the particularly obsessed on psychic photography...which ironicly he didn't beleive at all. Or at least, he would never have admitted to it.
It made a great shot though, so he was a little grateful for the gust of wind that had drawn his attention, lifting the old, heavy Nikon camera that was almost perpetualy around his neck and eyeing the place through the view finder. Get a good shot of this place and he'd be selling prints like they were going out of style. If the shot came out, that is. Which there was a risk for in this kind of lighting, he didn't have his low light equiptment, but then he hadn't gone out looking to do a photo shoot. His mistake obviously, he considered, snapping a few frames and lowering the camera again to stare at the house further.
Who lived there anyway? Did anyone?