Member-only story
I Live Next To An Abandoned House
And it is GREAT!
The people who used to live next door to me are gone. They had a dog that barked at me incessantly every time I stepped outside, for years. I love dogs, but this one clearly had a short-term memory problem.
The man was also known to take potshots at people he didn’t like (I believe with a muzzleloader), and to complain to the township about various and sundry things, even though his place looked like a junk yard had thrown up on itself. I didn’t really know much about the wife, who I only glimpsed briefly and mostly at night, like a possum.
I can’t say I miss them.
Most people would complain about living next to an abandoned property. But not me, baby. I value my privacy. That’s why I live in the country with the Klansmen and meth heads. It’s not like I have to socialize with them, and they’re not going to knock on my door offering a casserole, or asking me to join Nextdoor.
For the sake of everyone else living in the vicinity, and those just driving by, I have been mowing the neighbor’s lawn (which is small, thank God), and picking up here and there, gradually creeping closer and closer to the actual door. Sneaking up on it, you might say, like the house is a timid animal that I hope to befriend.
