The dark, drafty old house was lopsided and decrepit, leaning in on itself, the way an aging possum carrying a very heavy, overcooked drumstick in his mouth might list to one side if he were also favoring a torn Achilles tendon, assuming possums have them. The home was off the radar of any real estate agent with the goal of making the million dollar sales club.
It was used by the local youth as a hangout. They played illegal games of laser tag through its splintering doorways and made hasty dashes up and down the disintegrating stairs. They climbed onto its roof at night, when the police weren’t patrolling, and watched jets take off at the nearby airport. Sometimes they lofted rotten eggs at the passersby on the sidewalk, running for cover through a convenient hole when the victims looked up, chalking their misfortune up to a wayward bird.
On prom night, Jenny danced alone inside its walls with her invisible, articulate stranger and her broken heart. Her gown was covered in cobwebs.