The Skinny House

Tucked between brick buildings in Boston’s historic North End—where the streets are tight and the stories tighter—stands a home that looks like it got caught mid-squeeze. Just 10 feet wide at its widest point, narrowing to barely over six feet in others, the Skinny House isn’t just small. It’s a statement. Locals call it the Spite House. And like any good legend, it begins with a feud.

The story goes that two brothers inherited land after the Civil War. One went off to fight; the other stayed behind and built a large home—taking more than what was fair. When the soldier returned and found his share reduced to a sliver, he built anyway. Out of stubbornness. Out of principle. Out of spite.

What rose wasn’t a mansion, but a message: a four-story sliver wedged tightly between two full-sized buildings. No grand entrances. No sweeping yards. Just walls—close, defiant, unapologetic. It blocked sunlight, ruined views, and made a point that’s stood for over a century: you don’t get to take what isn’t yours.

Today, the Skinny House is still lived in. Still cherished. Still standing its ground.

Inside, space is reimagined—compact but clever. There’s a kitchen you can stretch your arms across, a spiral staircase tight as a corkscrew, and windows that catch every drop of daylight they can. It’s not large, but it doesn’t need to be. Every inch of it is alive with intent.

Tourists snap photos. Neighbors smile. And people still wonder, “Could I live there?”

But maybe that’s the wrong question. Maybe the Skinny House isn’t about comfort—it’s about character. A home built not just to shelter, but to say something. About fairness. About family. About how, sometimes, the smallest things cast the longest shadows.

In a city full of historic firsts and famous figures, this tiny house holds its own. Not because of its size—but because of its story.