The little boys and girls ran around the hilltop. Chasing, stumbling, Catching. Picking up souvenirs, treasures they found in the dirt. A cracked plastic ring, dull pennies, a broken chain, a button, a pen cap-- All left behind by other children before them, or the children before that or those before that. The little ones didn't know or care. They were too busy being the first explorers to sneak into the dark vineyards, tasting the sharp smell of the ripe grapes, blurring the footsteps of their predecessors, intoxicated with their bravery.
Every spring, they gathered by the tree by the old mansion, haunted by the man, who had died alone and angry (or so they say). In their daring, they would tell the story, the legend they always tell, because it has always been that way, of the creaking darkness, the gusts of spirits and dust rattling against the shuttered windows and the raggy tattered dirt of the place until the sky lightened when the giant behemoth blinked and yawned, shuddering in and out the Chinook in rattling gasps, a waking eyesore in the early dawn.
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