Parsons Manor is stationed on a cliffside overlooking the Bay with a mile long driveway stretching through a heavily wooded area. The congregation of trees separates this house from the rest of the world, making you feel like you’re well and truly alone. Sometimes, it feels like you’re on an entirely different planet, ostracized from civilization. The whole area has a menacing, sorrowful aura. And I fucking love it. The house has begun to decay, but it can be fixed up to look like new again with a bit of TLC. Hundreds of vines crawl up all sides of the structure, climbing towards the gargoyles stationed on the roof on either side of the manor. The black siding is fading to a gray and starting to peel away, and the black paint around the windows is chipping like cheap nail polish. I’ll have to hire someone to give the large front porch a facelift since it’s starting to sag on one side. The lawn is long overdue for a haircut, the blades of grass nearly as tall as me, and the three acres of clearing bursting with weeds. I bet plenty of snakes have settled in nicely since it’s last been mowed. Nana used to offset the manor’s dark shade with blooms of colorful flowers during the spring season. Hyacinths, primroses, violas, and rhododendron. And in autumn, sunflowers would be crawling up the sides of the house, the bright yellows and oranges in the petals a beautiful contrast against the black siding. I can plant a garden around the front of the house again when the season calls for it. This time, I'll plant strawberries, lettuce, and herbs as well. I’m deep in my musings when my eyes snag on movement from above. Curtains flutter in the lone window at the very top of the house. The attic. Last time I checked, there’s no central air up there. Nothing should be able to move those curtains, but yet I don’t doubt what I saw. Coupled with the looming storm in the background, Parsons Manor looks like a scene out of a horror film. I suck my bottom lip between my teeth, unable to stop the smile from forming on my face. I love that. I can’t explain why, but I do. Fuck what my mother says. I’m living here. I’m a successful writer and have the freedom to live anywhere. So, what if I decide to live in a place that means a lot to me? That doesn’t make me a lowlife for staying in my hometown. I travel enough with book tours and conferences; settling down in a house won’t change that. I know what the fuck I want, and I don’t give a shit what anyone else thinks about it. Especially mommy dearest.