No one is quite sure how it came about, but the Wickham House at the edge of town came to posess a remarkable power. From the inside, each of its 97 windows showed a what-if visible only to the viewer.

We all have our what-ifs, after all, those decisions we made but also lingered over long after they had faded. 97 of them waited behind the cloudy panes of Wickham House, snippets of what might have been.

They are like echoes, like dreams. You can see as if through a clouded mirror, hear as if through a thin wall. Always something interesting, always seen as if peering through some other window nearby. 97 alternate forks in the road, just visible enough for you to know of them.

People have tried to open the windows and climb through; they invariably find themselves in our own world, on the other side. People have tried to shatter the panes in hopes of I know not what; that is why only 97 remain. Some old-timers swear that at one time there were only 86 windows intact, and that the others have quietly grown back.

The county sheriff has sealed the property off for years. It’s dangerous, they say, a property on the verge of collapse and infested with black mold.

and yet still people come, sometimes from miles away.

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