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The Lake House

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Pulling up to the lake house, I looked over at my older sister, Clara, who was busy staring through the window of the old truck. Every year, my Dad’s whole side of the family stays together for a week every summer. Ever since I can remember, we’ve stayed at this huge, old lake house in Columbia, South Carolina. Clara and I hate being here. Strange things happen in this house… plates fall out 5432wq of cabinets and voices echo in the house throughout the night. Nevertheless, my grandparents still loved coming here and made us visit every year. Clara, my Dad, and I are the last ones to arrive because our flight from Chicago was overlaid two hours. I missed Chicago already, the constant buzz of people and the bright lights. Walking up to the house, everything felt the same as it always did. The humidity is choking, making it hard to breathe. The sun is blinding and the temperature is somewhere in the 90’s, as to be expected late July in South Carolina. The lake smells like dead fish. Always, no matter what. We walked up the old, wooden stairs. The light blue paint was chipping off the door, and the door itself looked like it was about to fall of the hinges. Clara let herself in, pulling her lime suitcase behind her. My two little cousins, Reagan and Matthew, immediately saw her and squealed with joy. Everyone loved Clara, her bubbly personality easy to get along with. No one, on the other hand, was ever excited to see me. I was the quiet one, overlooked by
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