A stiff breeze blew sand across the road. The wind was rising now. Upon the hill. The ancient Victorian, its wood white with recent paint, hedges trimmed, windows clean and sparkling, path immaculately mowed, driveway raked lovingly with gravel, stood silently on the hill. Nothing was out of place. Yet the palm trees were swishing back and forth in the wind, and the sun had long since been covered. The clouds were moving fast now, the air heavy with sea water and the promise of rain. The Victorian seemed to groan to itself in the gathering wind. Its street was empty of life, save for the field mice resting fitfully in the attic of the house across the street. That house was newer. Built in the 60's after Carla ravaged Galveston. The Victorian hated the house. Hated its more modern styling, the way its owners had let it run to ruin. It was already beginning to rot and stink up the Victorian's block. The Victorian was incensed it was even allowed to exist. With the breeze coming stronger now, thunder in the distance, the Victorian knew it was time. It could feel water moving across the ground some distance away, hear the breaking of waves against the seawall. Yes, it was time.