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The old house sat at the end of Maple Street, its porch sagging like a tired spine, and the paint peeling in long, pale strips that curled at the edges as if the walls were shedding their skin. Every window was dark except for the one in the attic, where a single bulb burned with a sickly yellow glow, and the glass was so grimy that the light looked like a drowning star. The front steps were cracked, with weeds pushing through the fissures, and the iron railing was rusted to the point where it flaked off at the slightest touch, leaving orange dust on your fingers. The mailbox hung at a crooked angle, its door hanging open, and inside you could see a few dead leaves and a crumpled envelope that had been there so long the ink had faded to a ghost of a name. The house had been vacant for eleven years, ever since the old woman who lived there had been taken away in the middle of the night, and the neighbors had their stories, each one darker than the last. Some said she had been a witch, others said she had just been mad, but everyone agreed that the house itself was wrong, that it seemed to breathe, that the floorboards groaned even when nothing walked on them, and that the air around it was always colder than the rest of the block. The children dared each other to run up and touch the door, but none ever went inside, not even on a dare, because the windows seemed to watch you, and the chimney sometimes emitted a thin wisp of smoke even though there was no fire, and the garden, once a tangle of roses and ivy, had grown into a wild, thorny mass that reached toward the street like grasping fingers. The porch swing hung from a single chain, swaying slightly in the wind even when there was no wind, and the boards beneath it were stained with something dark that had never washed away, no matter how many rains fell. The door itself was a heavy oak thing, studded with iron nails, and the knob was a brass lion’s head that had tarnished to a sickly green, and when you put your hand on it, you could feel a faint vibration, as if something on the other side was humming a tune you almost recognized. The steps were worn in the middle, hollowed out by decades of feet, and the left side had a crack that ran all the way to the foundation, and if you knelt down and peered into it, you could see darkness that seemed to go down forever, and sometimes you thought you saw a pair of eyes looking back. The gutters were clogged with leaves and twigs, and during a storm the water would pour over the edges in brown waterfalls, soaking the siding, which had blistered and warped so that it looked like the skin of an old animal. The roof had missing shingles in patches, and the bare wood underneath was rotted and black, and in the attic window, the one with the light, you could sometimes see a silhouette moving behind the grime, a shape that was too tall and too thin, with arms that hung too low, and it would pause and seem to look down at you, even though you were hidden behind the hedge across the street. The chimney leaned slightly to the left, and the bricks were crumbling, and there was a nest of something inside that had long since dried out, and when the wind blew, you could hear a faint scratching, like claws on stone, even though the birds had all flown away years ago. The foundation was cracked in several places, and the gaps were filled with a dark, sticky substance that might have been tar but smelled like rotting meat, and ants would march in and out in long lines, carrying bits of something you didn’t want to identify. The front door had a small, round window at eye level, and the glass was frosted, but there was a spot in the corner where the frost had been rubbed away, and if you stood close enough, you could see a sliver of the hallway inside, and it was always dark, but sometimes you thought you saw a flicker of movement, a shadow that slid across the floor without a source. The porch ceiling was painted a pale blue, the traditional color to keep away spirits, but the paint had faded and cracked, and the blue was now a patchy, dirty gray, and in some places the wood was bare, and you could see the grain had warped into shapes that looked like faces. The steps creaked even when you stepped on them gently, and the sound was a long, low groan that seemed to come from deep within the earth, and it made your teeth ache, and you could never tell if it was the wood or something else. The mailbox had a name on it, but the letters were so faded that you could only make out an ‘E’ and a ‘W’, and the rest was a blur of rust, and if you tried to open the box, the hinge would stick, and you’d have to pull hard, and when it opened, a cold breath would escape, even in the middle of summer, and there would be nothing inside but dust and a single, dried-up moth. The garden was a chaos of brambles and nettles, with a few pale flowers that bloomed out of season, their petals a sickly white like the underside of a dead fish, and the stems were covered in tiny thorns that left red welts on your skin if you brushed against them. There was a stone path leading to the door, but the stones were uneven and some were missing, and the ones that remained were covered in a green slime that made them treacherous to walk on, and in the gaps between them, you could see things moving, small, dark things that scurried away when you looked directly at them. The house had a back door too, but it was boarded up with planks that had been nailed on from the inside, and the nails were rusted and bent, and the wood was warped, and there were scratches on the boards, long, parallel lines that looked like they had been made by something with claws, and they went from the bottom to the top, as if something had tried to get out. The windows on the second floor were all sealed shut with layers of paint, and the sills were cracked, and in one of them, the glass was broken, and the hole was covered with a piece of cardboard that flapped in the wind, and if you listened closely, you could hear a sound like a child crying, but it was probably just the wind, or maybe a cat, but no one ever saw a cat around that house. The chimney sometimes emitted a thin wisp of smoke, and the smoke was dark and oily, and it smelled like burnt hair and old incense, and it would rise in a straight column even when the wind was blowing hard, and it would linger in the air for a long time, and then it would dissipate, and you’d feel a chill run down your spine. The neighbors had tried to have the house torn down, but the permits always got lost, and the inspectors always found something wrong, and the real estate agents refused to list it, and the city said there was nothing they could do, and so the house stayed, year after year, sinking deeper into the ground, its foundation slowly being swallowed by the earth, its walls bowing inward as if the weight of the sky was pressing down on it. The porch light, when it was on, cast a sickly yellow glow that attracted moths and beetles, and they would flutter against the glass, their wings making a dry, rattling sound, and then they would fall to the porch floor, dead, and their bodies would accumulate in a little pile that no one ever swept away. The doorbell was a button that had long since been painted over, and if you pressed it, you’d feel a faint buzz, but no sound would come from inside, and instead, you’d hear a distant thump, like something heavy being moved in the attic, and then silence, and then the light in the attic window would flicker, once, twice, and then go out. The house had a particular smell, not just of mold and decay, but something else, something sweet and cloying, like overripe fruit left in the sun, and it would cling to your clothes even after you walked away, and you’d have to wash them twice to get it out. The grass around the house was never cut, and it grew tall and yellow, and in the middle of summer, it would crackle under your feet, and the seeds would stick to your pants, and there would be no insects, no bees, no butterflies, only a heavy stillness that made you want to hold your breath. The house was a landmark of sorts, a warning to children and adults alike, and people would point it out to visitors, and they’d whisper stories, and the visitors would nod and shiver, and then they’d leave, and the house would remain, patient and watchful, waiting for something that no one could name, and the light in the attic would burn on, night after night, a single, unwavering eye in the darkness, and the house would seem to shift, just slightly, as if settling into a more comfortable position, and the steps would creak, and the wind would moan through the cracks, and the old woman’s name would be forgotten, but the house would remember, and it would keep its secrets, locked in the dark, behind the peeling paint and the sagging porch, and the weeds would grow taller, and the roof would sag a little more, and the years would pass, and the house would wait, and you would always feel it watching you, even when you were far away, even when you tried to forget, because the house was not just a building, it was a presence, a weight on the world, and it would not let go.

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