Room for the imagination
What's down in the basement?
You should know there's a ghost in the basement." My friend Frank levels me with his eyes, checking out my reaction. "She's a good spirit, but she occasionally scares the dickens out of my cat. You'd have to cater to her whims."
Frank owns a tiny bungalow in south Minneapolis, and I am considering the pros and cons of purchasing it from him. The last house I seriously considered buying was an old carriage house. It was perched on top of a steep incline so that it looked through the crowns of trees and out over downtown. I had fantasies of spending mornings writing in that urban tree house, until the inspector observed that the structure had no foundation. It was really a garage, stacked on piles of rocks. I decided it wouldn't do my book much good to be written in a house without a foundation.
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