The fox loped purposefully through the wooded hills alongside the farm. Its pads noiseless on the scattered blanket of pine needles and leaves as it skillfully navigated the narrow trail running up to the rail fence. It paused, tilting its head to sniff the wind, cautious of the strange odour it carried.

Ducking under the weathered rail, it carried along up the hard packed ruts of earth formed by the many years of traffic that passed along the road. Halting again, the fox sniffed at the grass ridge that grew between the ruts, reading the spoor of other woodland creatures that had used the same trail. A rusting, rooster-shaped weather vane on the barn roof suddenly stirred by the breeze made a sharp squeak, causing it to start; it sniffed the air again, shivering at the tingle in its spine.

Ahead sat the slumping structure of an uncared for farmhouse, its foundation fringed with dried dead stalks of weeds allowed to run wild. A broken, iron rimmed wheel jutted from a stiff pile of old compost, the spokes rotting away from the hub. The frame of an old harrow aimed its bent and rusted spikes down the drive as though suggesting a way out. The fox skirted the pile and slowed, stepping cautiously toward the sagging front steps.

The door stood partially open and the odour increased in strength as it climbed tentatively onto the porch. Curiosity was a strong opiate, overriding nerve and instinct, pushing the young fox to dare entry into the lair of a mortal enemy. It stopped in the dingy hall sniffing again at the fetid air.

A buzzing monotone drew attention to the room behind the open door and it padded slowly toward the strange sound, nose twitching sensitively. The fox paused in the doorway, the golden red fur standing up along its spine, its whole body trembling uncontrollably. The rank smell and the droning buzz emanated from a rotting pile in the centre of the room.

The fox jumped sideways and backed out; its last impression before bolting from the house was that of a curled fist crawling with flies.