The Affliction of Cooper Barton by Hannah Waugh The old house on the corner creaked and groaned, its weight bending to the merciless wind. The shifting of the rotting planks and boards eerily resembled the moaning of a human voice. The house appeared as if it had been pleasant-looking in its prime; an open porch snaked around the outside of the house, and a winding garden pathway led to the front door. The wide double doors had been delicately engraved, a brass knocker centered on each. Time, however, had degraded the house. The paint was peeling back to reveal the rotting wood underneath, and the brass had tarnished to a deep, green hue. The garden had been neglected for years and now only contained overgrown weeds and the skeletal remains of dead shrubs. Its name was Blight Manor. Despite its appearance, Blight Manor was occupied. A man lived within it; he had inherited it from an anonymous, deceased relative, people said. Or perhaps he had bought it to carry out his shady business, the bolder ones said. People spoke about this man behind his back, but not one of them had ever said one word to the man; the townsfolk went to great lengths to avoid him. Parents told their children that he was the worst kind of man. This man, you see, was a writer. His name was Cooper Barton. He was known to lock himself in his house for weeks at a time, never emerging until his deadline was met. He spoke to no one, acknowledged no one, and they did the same to him. Tonight he had shut himself up in the house, as it was the night before his deadline. Within the house, the man sat at a worn, wooden desk
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