Mosley House is off campus.
Mosley House was a shithole, held together by weed smoke and cobwebs. It don’t cost nothing to name a house. It makes it seem fancy like an English muffin, but it ain’t nothing. Why don’t landlords name all houses like that? They should. Bet they can get a couple extra bucks a month outta it.
Mosley House sat surrounded by an overgrown yard, shutters hanging on by sheer pluck, windows cracked and crooked, a smell of sickness and addiction wafting out into the wind. The college campus was right over there, but this house was off-campus. It was a flophouse, a drughouse, a drunkhouse.
Mosley House was divided into three apartments. Possibly two of ’em was empty. The parlor or foyer or whatever you call that space after the front door but before any of the apartments, that space — the doorzone, Steel decided to call it that from now on, he gonna trademark it and make a million dollars — the doorzone was beset with bits of menus, empty beer bottles and red solo cups, mysterious stains and the remains of a trash bag that done got tore up — Steel went to the third apartment, and he knocked on the door.