The House at the Summit of Magnolia Road
By Sreya Pyles The house at the summit of Magnolia Road crouches at a dead end, faces away from the sun, spills shade halfway down a dim-lit street. Stone steps tower tall as gallows; Drapes hang heavy, still as bodies on the curtain rods. The house at the summit of Magnolia Road is always vacant, rarely left alone yet always undisturbed. The house at the summit of Magnolia Road has the serenity of a funeral, the solace of a grave. It’s the house that the boys tell tales about. They sprint to its doorstep, teasing at the doorbells, smashing at the glass. The house that boys leave when night falls, when trepidation beats temptation. This is when the house bites back—wood creaks, shadows slip around corners like loose and rabid dogs. If this house were you (and it could be), I’d march up that hill, coat my eyelids with the dust that I wipe from your window sills. I’d peel and pocket strips of purple paint, paste them onto street poles, slip them into love notes. If this house were you (...
