The House on Court Street
The house sat on Court Street the way a sick animal sits—hunched and still and breathing in a way that suggests it is enduring something. It was white once, maybe in 1890, but the paint had peeled into long curling strips that hung from the siding like dead skin, and the columns that held up the front porch were rotting from the bottom up, swollen with moisture until they looked like bread left...
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