They said the house was cursed. They said it should be destroyed.
And yet, there was just something about it.
Every day on his way to work, Astor would walk two blocks out of his way, stop and look
at the old mansion. There was a high brick wall all the way around it and vines covering
that, but at the front was an iron gate and through it, the young man could catch a glimpse
of the house and it always stopped him in his tracks. Sometimes it was only for a few minutes, but other times, he would stop and before he had even realized, he had been
looking at it for ages. He couldn’t explain to anyone what it was about the old mansion
that drew him again and again. It was really just a burned up shell of a house. There had
been a fire ages ago, the windows had been boarded up and it had been left to rot as it
stood. The shutters were falling off and the roof was sagging, vines wound their way up
the grand grecian columns. She was old and weathered and tarnished with time, but she
still beautiful in Astor’s eyes.