“Daddy, is that what they call a haunted house?”
I could hear the little boy’s voice clearly from where I sat on my front porch, just feet away. He and his father were walking past my house. They couldn’t see me because… well, the little boy was right.
My house looked haunted. It’s a 120-year-old log cabin. I’d let it go in recent years, overwhelmed by health and financial problems. The roof leaked. Walls were damaged. Paint peeled. The heater needed replacement. So did the plumbing.
The yard around the cabin was a mess too. The weeds, briars and shaggy trees were so out of control, you could barely see the porch. I sat in my porch swing, shrouded by overgrowth, listening
