HopefulRealist
Really Experienced
- Joined
- Jun 7, 2009
- Posts
- 111
This Old House (Closed For NothingButTruth)
Hudson House had stood abandoned for nearly thirty years, ever since the murders. Some said that the house had always been haunted, and had driven the Andersons mad. Others said that the trouble had started years before, in 1855, when Abigail Anderson slept with the very married Reverend Thomas Church, and then announce to the town that she was having his child. The family had been a bad lot since, with the sins of the mother being visited upon her children. For nearly a hundred and fifty years now, they had been the town pariahs, know as thieves, loose women and imbibers.
The town had been ready to tear the house down for nearly twenty years now, but they had not been able to clear the legal hurdles. Like an ugly grey toadstool, it had squatted in the center of Last Hope, New Hampshire. Its paint had peeled year after year, revealing different layers of paint, and giving in the appearance of camouflage in greyscale. The lower windows had been boarded up haphazardly, seemingly by a blind carpenter. The upper windows were broken out, from years of schoolboys daringly throwing rocks at them, front the sidewalks.
Laura Anderson-Harrison stood outside the front gate, staring at the familial eyesore. Its front porch roof sagged at the edges and the broken railing looked like diseased teeth. The twin boarded up windows helped the illusion that the front of the house was the face of a deranged madman. Even the stone path, leading to her feet, felt to her like a dead tongue, reaching out to get a taste of the living.
Laura stood silhouetted against the setting sun. Her dress, bought on clearance at Kmart, was black, and extended down just above her knees. Her slender stems meet with narrow hips and a tiny waist, made even more so by the dark dress. Above her small breasts rose a graceful white neck topped with a small oval face. The face had dark dramatic eyes, made even more so by its white pallor. Long, dirty blond hair hung free about her shoulders.
The broken gate lay a few yards away, so there was nothing between her and the stone walkway, except for the past. For twenty minutes she just stood and stared. Finally, she took one step forward, onto the walkway. She was the first peron, Anderson or not, to do to walk onto the property for almost ten years, ever since Rick West dared his brother Steven to do so, causing his brother to put his foot through the front steps, sending him to the hospital with a torn up ankle.
Hudson House had stood abandoned for nearly thirty years, ever since the murders. Some said that the house had always been haunted, and had driven the Andersons mad. Others said that the trouble had started years before, in 1855, when Abigail Anderson slept with the very married Reverend Thomas Church, and then announce to the town that she was having his child. The family had been a bad lot since, with the sins of the mother being visited upon her children. For nearly a hundred and fifty years now, they had been the town pariahs, know as thieves, loose women and imbibers.
The town had been ready to tear the house down for nearly twenty years now, but they had not been able to clear the legal hurdles. Like an ugly grey toadstool, it had squatted in the center of Last Hope, New Hampshire. Its paint had peeled year after year, revealing different layers of paint, and giving in the appearance of camouflage in greyscale. The lower windows had been boarded up haphazardly, seemingly by a blind carpenter. The upper windows were broken out, from years of schoolboys daringly throwing rocks at them, front the sidewalks.
Laura Anderson-Harrison stood outside the front gate, staring at the familial eyesore. Its front porch roof sagged at the edges and the broken railing looked like diseased teeth. The twin boarded up windows helped the illusion that the front of the house was the face of a deranged madman. Even the stone path, leading to her feet, felt to her like a dead tongue, reaching out to get a taste of the living.
Laura stood silhouetted against the setting sun. Her dress, bought on clearance at Kmart, was black, and extended down just above her knees. Her slender stems meet with narrow hips and a tiny waist, made even more so by the dark dress. Above her small breasts rose a graceful white neck topped with a small oval face. The face had dark dramatic eyes, made even more so by its white pallor. Long, dirty blond hair hung free about her shoulders.
The broken gate lay a few yards away, so there was nothing between her and the stone walkway, except for the past. For twenty minutes she just stood and stared. Finally, she took one step forward, onto the walkway. She was the first peron, Anderson or not, to do to walk onto the property for almost ten years, ever since Rick West dared his brother Steven to do so, causing his brother to put his foot through the front steps, sending him to the hospital with a torn up ankle.
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