Deja Vu …by Michael
The house at No. 18 always gave me a weird feeling whenever I walked past.
It was a dark and foreboding place. A high fence sheltered it from the outside world, and the house itself appeared to be sunk into the hill.
If I happened to pause as I went by I could feel a familiarity.
I had never been inside the front gate as far as I knew. My mother had told me to keep away, to not venture inside the gate as bad things had happened there.
When pressed, she would say it was best not spoken about.
The inhabitants of No.18 were a collection of aged sisters. They dressed in black, they shuffled in old age, one was a gardener and was often seen weeding or pruning, another could be seen each Wednesday, on pension day, pulling her shopping cart to the supermarket…
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