The House Of Hate

The House of HateIt Was a Day in early fall, one of those rare days with the delicate flavor of good dry wine, the soft air a thin sea of pale diffused gold. In a fold of valley, at the end of a dirt lane that sloped down from the ridge road, Abner Huck's place lay silent, graying in the sun.The house was old and sturdy, weathered and wanting paint but otherwise in good repair, an oblong story and a half with a porch running across the front and facing the lane which flowed past and pooled into...