I live in a rather old house. Vines have crept up its blackened, decayed sides and twisted themselves into an intricate maze. Blood red roses grow on large sprawling bushes in a wild, maundering fashion. At night, the moon throws an ethereal, almost ghoulish glow over the landscape, casting parts of it into soft, muted shadow. The dead trees outside sway melancholically in the gentle breeze. My friends called me crazy for buying this dilapidated mansion. It is far from town, and completely isolated. The neighborhood is practically deserted. The truth is, it was offered to me for almost nothing. The original owners left in quite a hurry. They seemed frightened, speaking of “strange happenings” and “mysterious voices”. People really do get into a tizzy over nothing. Frankly, I’m not the crazy one for accepting a deal as good as this. I’ll admit, when laid stark and bare in the cold light of day, my residence appears unseemly. The cracked, peeling paint is the only sign of its...
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