Finn
“The floor slants alarmingly downward to his left where the Wallace P. Greene swept one of the pilings away, and already certain flotsam has begun to accumulate in that far corner by the entry to the porch. Bottles mainly but also clothing and trash and scraps of paper and something alive that rustles invisibly there even as he looks and listens. To his right is the door to the bedroom stairs, hanging open in a frame abristle with pulled nails that sprout like so many teeth. The naked board step...s before him are spattered with white paint and bare footprints marked in the blackest coal dust, with bits of charcoal littered from edge to edge and ground into each crevice and corner. He thinks the place is worse than he had imagined it, worse even than it must have been when old Anderson died intestate here and left it ripe for the salvaging, and he is half afraid to touch anything within its confines. At the turning of the stairs he begins to see if not what his brother has done then at least the markings indicative of it.MoreLess
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