My great-grandmother's husband, Bill, built it for me when I was a little girl. He built furniture to match. Little beds and cupboards, built-ins and tiny logs for the fire. Twenty-years ago, the house was retired. To storage where it waited patiently for a new generation of children to ignore its broken stairs and peeling wallpaper... My plan was to restore the house. Glue new paper to its bathroom floor. Repaint the walls on which I once plastered Rainbow Brite stickers. But then it arrived. In its run-down glory, floors peeling like years gone and I changed my mind. Some historical landmarks need not be renovated, lest they lose their history. To restore it to its original luster would be to destroy its beloved stain, its haunting strange and lovable creep.
Ghostbusters, be gone.