You could call that blue house next to us abandoned, but it’s not.

The old man who lives there is in his 90’s but only comes there for a week every summer. He lives in Wisconsin, so that blue house is rarely used.

He’s a hoarder.

I sometimes imagine what’s in there, what it looks like. Piles of newspapers stacked so high you can’t see out the windows?

Maybe it even has an odor.

There’s a window in the basement I dare not look at while I’m playing basketball. The ball always rolls over there. I want to peer through the window, but my heart speeds up, warning me not to.

The old man passed away at 98.

His son takes the house into his care. The son puzzles at what to do with it at first, but pretty soon, he decides to sell it.

Our old friend from across the lake decides to take up the project of this house.

Not one thing is changed while he is the owner of that house.

Day after day, the house continues to rot in bad condition.

Until one day, he hires people to trash all the junk inside. My aunt flips houses, so she decides to put in an offer for it; it goes through.

The first time I went in there it was stuffy, stinky, and 85 degrees.

I swear that old man still haunts that house. I stand still in that house and it creaks and whistles. When my eyes rest on that house, I swear someone keeps opening and closing the attic window. And at night the light in the basement flicks on and off at some points.

Whenever I go over there to sit in peace, I never feel like it’s quiet.