There's a house on a hill with a single dirt road leading down into the valley. The road connects to the interstate, actually, but you'd never in a million years see the thing unless you knew what you were looking for - a small blank wooden sign next to a particular mile marker.
Turn off the interstate and drive up the hill, careful-like. This tiny house, not more than a cabin, really, three rooms and a chimney with a lean-to at the side, appears out of nowhere. Even if you found the road and had the necessary traction, you'd probably miss the thing; it blended well, was more of a tree than anything artificial; it was grown.
There's a porch (not much more than an extra-wide front step, really) with a couple of crates, some storm windows that never got around to getting put up come winter, a small, half-hearted attempt at a stockpile of firewood and a dull axe. A birdcage stuffed with newspaper clippings. A rusted straight razor, stuck open, in a chipped coffee mug with a broken handle. A wheelbarrow piled high with old clothes and paving stones, and a coffee can filled with rainwater and cigarette butts. The house itself is empty and quiet.
You'd never guess that something is happening.