THE FLICKERThe old house
Someone, or something, had apparently come to live, or stir, in the odd house down the road, that old mansion on the corner before one turned left down Mango Street, which led toward the thick coconut groves that bordered the farthest end of the village.
The house had stood empty for years, its creeping age a gravity of moss and termites which had eaten away at the wood and rendered the entire structure at the brink of certain collapse. It creaked even on the gentlest of days. The peeling paint—once immaculate white—was almost a dark mask, something decayed and evil, which frightened away the children in the neighborhood, marking itself the inevitable center of terrifying late night talk around bonfires or slumber parties.
The house stood on its corner of wild w
