One of many things wrong with Spacklehaus. Every time it rained, we got a little swimming pool in the basement. I sometimes imagine the house as an old prize fighter, on his last legs, doing his best but ultimately falling short. We were in Rochester this past weekend for Toracon, and we took a moment to drive by Spacklehaus - the red paint on the shutters has bled down the front of the building and the houses on either side seem to have been repainted, so it looks a little like a haunted house. 

I still remember this conversation clearly ... all of Yuko's apprehension about the house the previous night was burned away by the scorching heat of her untempered rage at the squirrel colony living in the sealed room next door. Here, let me repeat that: 

GUYS WE HAVE TO TELL YOU ABOUT SPACKLEHAUS

There isn't a total vocabulary to describe how bizarre the year in Spacklehaus was. The name Spacklehaus is a story in and of itself, but in any event it was an old house right outside downtown Rochester. The landlord's name was Mort, which, I thought to myself, sounded like the name of an orcish innkeeper. Let it be known, this is one of those times a person looks exactly like their name sounds, much to your discomfort. Mort is also a story for later, though.