A fragment of a story about an old house at The Community Storyboard.
This is a tiny excerpt from my first novel (working title: The House), about a house that can love, kill, and grieve.
After the night of horror, after all the inhabitants had been killed–the family that this old house had loved so much–the house itself began a kind of suicide.
It commenced with peeling wallpaper, fraying carpets, shredding curtains, choking the chimney, throwing pictures aslant, tossing pillows of dust everywhere. Outside the once brilliant white paint splintered into bits of chip and the wood underneath was a dour grey. The windows became opaque, the screen around the porch grew holes big enough for a swarm of bees to fly through, the floorboards buckled. Grass grew tall in among the now cracked stone steps, and the outhouse … that quaint cozy privy that the house had stood watch over, collapsed into a sad heap of shingles and boards, the children’s magazines…
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