We reach the house by mid-morning, our journey short and brimming with anticipation.
The building in front of us is boarded up and long since abandoned. Many believe it to be structurally unsound, with rumours that the removal of a single timber could cause it to collapse completely.
It is a challenge that we are prepared to accept.
Natasha steps forward and grips one of the wooden scaffold supports at the base, the house stiffening in anticipation. Without warning she yanks the scaffold up from the road, and pulls it away from the rooftop. A few tiles fall to the ground but nothing more.
She turns and raises the scaffold high like a lance, curtsying to the applause of the crowd. As she does so the front wall of the house cracks, sags, and collapses inwards on itself. It happens within seconds, consuming Natasha and her short-lived fame.
The interior of the building is now exposed to the crowd, a tableau of rooms fully visible. As the dust begins to disperse many tens of shapes begin to move and stand up from the floors, their eyes adjusting to the daylight.
A story based on the photo prompt for Sunday Photo Fiction
Photo (c) Mike Vore