Mom and I lived in an old bungalow on York Street, just a few blocks from Washington Park. It was a single-story house with a large front porch, much like the one in the picture. The window above the porch provided the rising sun passage into an otherwise dark, creepy attic.
The house was eerie, like something out of a horror flick. Looking up from the street you could sometimes see a shadowy figure peering out from the attic window.
We were not alone.