The house is surrounded by a brick wall. Two massive concrete lions sit on the wall in front of a 10-foot-high, barbed-wire-topped fence to guard the antebellum home-turned-Elvis-shrine like a junkyard prison.
The side driveway, though barricaded by the fencing, is marked by a “no trespassing” sign slapped onto a shack-like ticket booth occupied by a wigged mannequin. Beyond the fence, the drive is cluttered with old, once-vibrant, now rundown cars.