There’s an orange light from the window and I see it every night on my walk home. I wonder what’s inside. I can see a silhouette through the matte cedar sill and sometimes the shape, usually still and lithe, slinks back from sight as I stroll past. The loft is a ramshackle Moorish revival affair, wrapped in creeping kudzu, nestled otherwise nondescript in a grove of fragrant gardenia maybe twenty metres off Decatur. Some say it’s been empty for years; others tell different.
There’s an elderly man who lives there with two faces, the plump secretary at my accounting firm says. One that’s normal and another one on the back of his head. He’s gaunt as a scarecrow, and maybe Creole, although no one knows for sure. But don’t knock on his door. He’s been criminally ill for some time. And he sees things behind him.
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