At the end of Chrysanthemum Lane stands an old, old house. Its boards are rotting, and the door fell off its rusted hinges ages ago, so it now lies on the cracked porch with the old broken rocking chair, rotting in a corner. The once beautiful halls are spattered with moss, the furniture now either gone or covered with dusty white sheets. The roof has caved in from the weight of branches falling from the tall oak in the backyard, the wind blowing dry leaves down, spiraling into the overgrown front lawn, which is full of weeds, tall grass, and fallen acorns. In the bedroom at the top of the house, there is a rotting chest filled with china dolls. Staring dolls, cracked and growing moss, sitting, waiting for… for what, exactly? For help? For life? For… revenge?