The headlights picked out a crooked wooden fence and a post with a sign in spiky, old-fashioned letters. “‘Penncroft Farm,’” I read out loud. “‘Established 1760.’”
Dad eased the car around the corner and started up the driveway. “Don’t even think of skateboarding down this, Lars,” he said. “There’s quite a drop-off on the other side of the pike. You’d break a leg if you went off it, and maybe your neck.”
Even by moonlight I could tell that it was different from any house I’d ever seen. It looked as if someone hadn’t been able to decide what sort of house he wanted, so he’d hooked several kinds together. There were dark, bumpy stones on the middle part, but the left section was shingled like our old Minnesota house; the right was covered with white stuff.
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