The floorboard creaked. The house came alive and... walked.
It did not walk as people walk, as things designed to move would move. No, a house is not meant to ambulate, not meant to be in a place different from the place it had always been. That was the first trial, overcoming years of inactivity, millenia of tradition.
But the house was determined to leave its lot, after its lot in life had fallen. All around it, other houses had fallen, eaten away by neglect, time, disuse. And while this house had not had resident or human inhabitant for far longer than it would like to recall, it was built of sterner stuff.
So the house walked, slowly, inch by agonizing inch. It unattached itself from the its foundation, beams and bricks strained under unfamiliar weight and sensations. The dust of years shook off, and if you had been there, you might have heard the snapping and squealing of wiring and plumbing ripping apart from the county grid.
The house was determined to find a better place, perhaps to Florida, that sun dazzled place that was pictured in a dusty magazine in the sitting room. Or Fiji, which a yellowed almanac suggested was a paradise. The idea of roads, or people, or even oceans were alien. Movement was alien too, but the house was fast learning.
To those that might have seen the house walking, they didn't know what to say. The movement itself was agonizingly slow, like a collapse in extreme slow motion. If you stood there you might see a shutter move against the wind, but the dreams of a place last long, and have a far reach.