I know this house with the missing windows, the door that only locks from the outside, the yard chocked with sand and weeds.
It’s a warm house, this house with no windows. The wooden stairs plunge down to a basement that is painted a dull blue and there is a clutch of skeleton keys hanging from a hook shaped like a lady’s hand in the kitchen above the sink. I think one of the fingers is missing.
The water still runs, rusty and fetid from aged pipes, the electricity still flows up and down rotted copper wires and the radio in the basement works sometimes.
The House with the missing windows, the one with the well used stairs that lead to the basement with the dirt floor where there is one chair sitting in a dark corner festering with spider webs, was never a nice house.
It has always smelled of death and decay and the attic roof always leaks when it rains and rats seem to come from miles around just to decompose in it’s walls.
A lady named Miss Giuliana Coffin died there.
A few times.