Walking to the rear of the house up a narrow staircase leading through a dark corridor and exiting into a small room.
There’s a preacher nearby shouting at his congregation through a bullhorn.
The plastic-wrapped Teddy’s in the corner amplify the already macabre atmosphere.
I hear Jesus isn’t going to take kindly to sinners; the voice sounding raw from the shrill.
The plastic feels old and brittle, they’ve been in this position for a long time.
Clearing the small centre table of its orchids, I place my camera down for a steady platform and take their portrait.
The sermon is reaching its climax promising a fair amount of fire and brimstone as I retrace my steps back down the corridor.
I surmise the owner of that grating voice will sleep well tonight.

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