The house rises out of the hill above the town, above the Arthur Kill. It stands alone, it's widow's walk looking out towards the Raritan Bay - obscured now by the bridge built in 1928. The front porch conforming with the curve of the hill.
A landscaping crew comes by regularly throughout the year. They mow. They rake. They plow. They seed.
The newspaper is delivered daily. Groceries are delivered once a week. Other supplies arrive as needed. All deliveries are left on the front porch. Payments are made by the law firm that is responsible for the trust.
There is someone there. They see him take in the deliveries, walking the grounds, watching from the widow's walk. He wears a white shirt and black pants, sometimes a black jacket depending on the weather. Ask anyone - old or young - and they will tell you that he's always been there. As far back as they remember. Of course, they can't say for sure because no one has ever spoken to him.
No one has ever gone past the front porch or called out to him when he was outside. They can't say why. But they are uneasy around him, around the house.
There's something "wrong" about it.
