This is a rather unusual post. If you’re even vaguely familiar with my account, you’ll acknowledge just how out of place something like this seems. By all means, this has no seat within the sea of old journal entries; especially considering the turning point that lingered on the last few words of my latest post. But the excerpts I rewrite have already been set in stone. The events written in previous (and upcoming) posts have happened over four decades ago, and their outcomes have faded into faraway recollections. This, although bleeding into a similar sentiment, is still fresh and far more personal. This post entails the events from the 22nd and the decade’s worth of emotions I was forced to revisit. So we’re taking a brief break from Ophelia Hollow, fast-forwarding roughly thirty years later. Around the year 2011.
That was when my father bought the house.
The reasons melted into a logistic concoction. We were fabulously well-off as always, but local business in our former residence had mellowed out enough for my father to change courses. To expand the marketing, as though it weren’t already immeasurably gargantuan. His origins could also be taken into consideration for his decision. Those who grow up in the same place all their lives either stubbornly strive to do the same or significantly stray from the immobile path laid in front of them. My father was always of the latter variation.
So we moved. I was still an anklet-wearing, rambunctious, matted-haired kid. I remember falling into a sleep so deep that I had persuaded myself it was reality. This disturbingly convincing falsehood haunted me for what felt like a multitude of pale days and restless nights. Tears of joy blinded me once I was awoken. It was funny; what bordered on a torturous week in dreamland had only been around eight actual hours spent snoozing in a limousine.
But at the time, I didn’t find it funny.
I found it traumatizing.
I desperately desired comfort from my father, but he shooed me away. He was too busy talking with his wealthy buddies, recalling the absurd antics of one of my uncles. My mom was too dazed to care about me, so with my calloused parents unavailable, I searched for anyone else willing to reassure my young mind. My sister took up the task as the vehicle went over some train tracks.
“You should be happy. It wasn’t real.”
“But it was scary,” I remember biting my nails. “I spent a week in a jungle!”
“But it wasn’t real.”
…
“How do I know this isn’t real? How do I keep something like that from happening again?”
My sister fidgeted with her hands in a nonchalant fashion. “If you think it’s real life, but you’re not too sure, try stretching your skin. If you’re dreaming, it’ll move around like silk.” Her eyes finally met mine, “and if you think you’re dreaming, but you’re not too sure, try to acquire a light and burn yourself. Hopefully, you’d be dreaming. You’d be in a lot of pain otherwise.”
I frowned. That sounded awful. I didn’t want to experience so much pain over a possible dream. The air surrounding my sister and I went dauntingly silent; every breath seemed to chill my lungs. Then Laura peered out the window and spoke once more.
“You have other reasons to be happy. We’re finally here.”
Upon hearing this, my eyes darted to the car window.
The house in front of me seemed massive compared to its surroundings. Vibrant grass coated the ground, slightly brushing against the old foundation. It was a Victorian house, aged enough to harbor countless tales. I imagine at one point; the wood was stained a brilliant shade of pine, almost breathtakingly blending into the thick forests lying behind it. But thousands upon thousands of rainy days had gotten the better of this hue, reducing it to a muted, pastel pistachio green.
This architectural relic, this testament to the soft trials of time, sat atop a small, grassy hill. The only way to reach the front door was to drive or walk up a steep gravel road. Once there, I hopped out of the car to get a better look.
I don’t really know how to describe it in a way that even remotely does the area justice. I suppose I could just say it was very rustic.
The soles of my shoes brushed against centuries-old gravel, surrounded by the world’s wild marvels. To the right of the house laid an old, small stone wall. One area pivoted into some sort of fountain, creating a tiny, pastoral stream that pooled into a little pit of muddy water. The moss-covered wall divided the flat surface surrounding the house and the great, elevated woods that neighbored it. My mouth went agape.
Previously, I had only lived in the most modern gated mansions with the flattest of land. To gaze upon a house so ingrained with nature and her oldest works of art….wow. It was such a great feeling—such a great discovery.
I had to take a look inside.
Everything was already set in its place. The unpacking was done before we arrived. Father hired a dozen men to do it for him. Certainly, the house was big, yet it was smaller than what I had been accustomed to. There were only five bedrooms and a scarce amount of areas dedicated to recreation or trivial displays of wealth. That intrigued me.
The indoor architecture was elaborate yet undoubtedly flawed. The stairs were different sizes. Some polished planks of wood seemed uneven. One of the shorter doorframes was crooked. This should’ve been a turn-off. With all its imperfections and quirks, the old house was a far cry from anything I had grown familiar with. Yet I loved it. Perhaps it just gave off this rural, small-town vibe that every rich boy doesn’t know they find alluring till they truly taste it.
But I ran into one problem.
Remember how there were five bedrooms? Well, my specific branch of the family needed six at the minimum. I was too busy gawking at the place to claim a room, leaving me the odd child out. I was scared for a split second. But my father approached me, assuring me that it was no big deal.
Then he took me by my hand.
That’s something he had never done before and something he’s never done since. But he grabbed my hand and guided me to a room with glass doors.
The porch.
It had been repurposed into a velvet-coated bedroom with silk curtains and a golden bed frame. But that didn’t concern my young mind. Almost instantly, I gravitated toward the large window. It took up the entirety of the wall. It was all perfect; the height of the house, the placement, the ex-porch status of my bedroom, the vast glass pane…
It all gave me a flawless view of downtown.
Just over the train tracks, over the bridge, past the vast river, were bustling streets and bundles of ornate, fancy buildings. These establishments thinned out, transforming into an outdoor concert area littered with benches and trails along the river to walk across. This awe-inspiring image, constantly moving and brimming with liveliness, promised to persistently be at my side.
How could it get any better?
Well, when I went to bed that night, I noticed my voice get significantly deeper. Just all of a sudden, without a rhyme or reason. That made sense. I’m one of those guys who grew up fast, only to stop soon and suddenly look younger than everyone else. But at the time, I didn’t know that. At the time, I just saw it as a sign. I was changing, turning a new leaf in every way. I was captivated by my new house. I pranced along throughout my days, and everything was happy and easy.
Easy.
God, why couldn’t it have stayed like that?
It’s funny when you don’t realize just how messed up your life was as a kid. There’s this little veil of innocence over your eyes, delicately tinting your worldview. Some may think that a luxurious life never entirely removes the veil. In some instances, you’d be correct, but in others, you would be wrong. Terribly wrong.
Since I slept in the ex-porch, I had a second door in my room that led to the outside world. And right beside it sat a lounging chair. For the first few months, I never sat in it. I always chose to explore the vast woods beyond the stone wall when I went outside. Sitting and lazing about was boring; why would I ever want to do that? Besides, that chair quickly became my mom’s. She would sit outside all the time, and just watch the leaves fuss against the wind—just listen to the insects’ buzz. One day those insects were particularly loud.
I decided to investigate.
So I went outside with bare feet and summer shorts, only to notice my mom sitting on her chair. It was somewhat funny how she would sit; her chest never rose, and her fingers never moved. That stayed the same when I saw her that day, but her lips were different.
Her lips were blue.
…Oh.
I cried a lot that day. My father called the police, but they couldn’t hear him over the train going by. Maybe if they could’ve, things would’ve turned out differently. I can’t say for sure. But I can say this:
The veil of innocence was ripped right off of my eyes.
The world’s darkness, the downside to the human mind, exposed itself to me. My mom was a sick, sad woman, and despite everything wealth could buy, the world would never be enough for her. I would never be enough for her.
The household’s new resident became sorrow. My younger brother and I took the brunt of its company. That was our mother, the woman who gave us life. We were supposed to be the apple of her eye; she was supposed to see us graduate. She was supposed to be proud of us. It was incomprehensibly brutal to know that would never happen.
Our father wasn’t there to comfort us. He wasn’t there to do the things a father should. He was there to leave the responsibility of emotionally supporting his youngest children to his older ones. The curse of being the second youngest son showed its fangs.
Everybody instinctively rushes to the younger one’s side in instances of tragedy. It made sense from a logical standpoint. My brother was the smaller, weaker one. He was the confused one. His veil was still semi-intact. Of course everyone went to comfort him. Of course I was neglected in that aspect.
I deeply resented my family for this in a way only a child could. I was upset at my mom for dying, mad at my father for his aloofness, and jealous of my younger brother for getting all the support when we were both wrapped in grief. There were a lot of emotions boiling in my little brain, and I needed to do something before they overflowed.
So, I decided to expand my horizons. To turn my head from the parasitic face of misery and project my frustrations in ways only an artist knows how. I set my sights off the woods next to my house.
I looked to the downtown streets instead.
After that, I spent almost a year wandering wherever I found remotely interesting and fiddling with a pencil and notebook paper.
Sometimes I would go under the bridge and walk around, either relishing in or desperately trying to forget my suffering. Sometimes I would walk along the train tracks. Sometimes I would walk along the trail next to the grand river, watching the ruthless current take whatever it could.
Sometimes I would visit the vintage candy shop downtown. Sometimes I would pass the portable toilet near the outdoor stage and gag. Sometimes I would sit on the roof of an abandoned garage near my house and try to meditate. Sometimes I would listen to the puppy a few doors down bark at nothing. Sometimes I would sit on the lounging chair and throw rocks at the stone wall. Sometimes I would cry. But sometimes -just sometimes- I would laugh.
My relationship with that house was so complicated. A series of tragedies struck the span of my time there, yet I can never honestly say I had a bad time. At the end of the school year, I won three awards. My class voted me the kindest student, the best artist, and the most talented boy. How lovely. I made friends. I got my first girlfriend; I went to cool restaurants, I went on juvenile adventures. I lived. Happiness and sorrow clashed together, melting into one in my memories, and it all tied back to one place.
No matter where I was downtown—under the bridge, on the garage roof, on the streets—anywhere at all, I could always look back in one direction and see my old, glorious house. Without failure.
One spring day, walking near the path along the river, my eyes strayed from my house to glance at construction work.
Huh.
Near the concert area, various carnival rides were being set up. There was going to be a festival.
I crafted a plan to go.
Nobody would go with me. All my friends were going with their own families. My father (surprise, surprise) was unavailable as well. None of my older siblings wanted to go with me. Mom was a pile of ashes, and my new mom was always out and about with my younger brother, trying to give him the best life due to a sense of guilt. But this didn’t concern me. It was whatever. I would simply go by myself.
Throughout the next week, I gathered chunks of information and snooped around to snatch crumpled dollar bills left within dirty pant pockets. I only needed twenty-five dollars. Twenty-five dollars to ride all the rides and have some real goddamn fun. I told myself it would be great, and I swore on that. On the fourth Sunday of May, I would have an absolute blast.
But when this Sunday came, I woke up to various men moving furniture around.
Local business had once again mellowed out enough for my father to change courses.
Well, that’s what he claimed, anyway. I stuttered to search for questions.
“We’re leaving today?”
“Yes.”
“But we’re not fully packed!”
“We’ll stay at a resort if we have to.” My father faced the door as he said that. “Come on. Get out.”
Once again, I moved away in a limousine, completely and utterly bummed out about not being able to have fun at the festival. It was all so sudden, just as the way life always was. One moment, you’re planning all this stuff in your head, imagining how things will play out, only to tumble down and be cut off from your ideas. It was such a shame, though, in hindsight, it was fitting.
A bittersweet farewell for a bittersweet era in a bittersweet house.
Bittersweet…what a weird word. I like it.
But at the end of the day, that was that—nothing I could do about it. If life were to play out naturally, I would’ve never seen that house again, never hit such awful lows again, and I would’ve started anew as a happier kid.
Yet, I was not a happier kid.
I don’t think I’ve ever been since.
I already vaguely touched upon the road my life has driven down.
I became unequipped to deal with my erratic emotions at a young age. One might’ve turned to therapy, but my father thought that sort of thing was for idiots. One might’ve turned to intense exercise, but a preteen couldn’t just get in the car and hit the gym. But I had older friends. A concerning amount of them. And they could provide me with cigarettes and borderline predatory party games until the sun came up. They did just that, giving me poisonous outlets and calling it love.
It’s safe to say I became a different person. I dressed differently, burned all of my stupid anklets, and declared myself unique from others my age because I dealt with more mature problems. There was a tragedy behind my sad little existence, and that was my masterpiece. I actually said that. I wrote it down a few times.
Those little awards I had gotten earlier became meaningless. “Kind.” I became a total dick. “Best artist.” I ditched drawing altogether. “Most talented” Heh. As if. I was just a futureless rich kid on the way to nowhere. This edginess eventually spiraled into underaged alcoholism.
I ran away from home at a depressingly young age, only keeping in touch with select family members through Facebook. There was a lot of legal trouble before my father just gave up on me. I started attending school less and less, either wholly silent or utterly intoxicated when I did go. I moved in with one of my aforementioned older friends, and we drank from dusk to dawn.
Until he got clean.
He did this on a whim, deciding one day that the taste of alcohol made him incredibly nauseous. No big deal. It just meant more for me. But it became apparent that this soberness was brought on through some sort of enlightenment. I forget what it exactly was; maybe he turned Christian and “found God” or something. I didn’t really care. What I did care about was the fact that he stopped buying any booze for me.
I got very pissy very quickly. In my mind, it just wasn’t fair. He was the one who first gave me the cancer sticks and the liquor. He was the one who put the bottle in my underaged hands. He created this. He couldn’t just do that to me—use me up, fuck me over, push me into this addictive world and leave me to starve when he decided he was too good to suffer alongside me. I expressed my opinions thoroughly, and arguments frequently broke out before one day, he decided he had enough.
Just after drinking the last of my stash, he threw a few packed suitcases at me.
“Fuck off.”
I didn’t ask any obvious questions. I didn’t even really protest. At that point, I was so angry at him for all the wrong reasons. Blinded by drunken hatred, I just laughed in the face of bullshit.
“Where to, your highness?”
“I don’t care, just leave. I’ve had enough. Go get wasted somewhere else.”
I repeated the same sentiment banging around in my mind.
“You can’t fucking do this to me!”
“You’ve been saying that for three months. Well, guess what? I can do this to you, and I just did. Get out.”
Get out…
“Where the hell am I even supposed to go?!”
“You’re rich. You have infinite options. Go back to living off of daddy’s money.” He snorted, “or maybe you should go back to wherever actually made your sick ass happy.”
“Whatever.” I continued to mumble that word in a fit of outrage. Venom seeped through every pore of my body, yet I was forced to simply accept my predicament. I picked up my luggage and chuckled as I stormed towards the door.
“I think you’re just doing this ‘cause I’m not a stupid little kid anymore.”
“Get out, Alex.”
“Whatever…” I spat on the floor with a scowl, “you’re a fuckin’ pedophile. That’s why your girlfriend’s a titless little bitch.”
“Take your car and leave.”
“Whatever. You’ll come back begging for me when she doesn’t wanna suck you off anymore.”
“GET. OUT.”
I slammed the door behind me. Whatever. What-FUCKING-ever.
I sat in my car and screamed for a few minutes. Maybe a few hours. I kept punching my thigh, reflecting on everything with malice and boiling sadness. I didn’t know what else to do—how else to vent my frustrations. My ex-roommate’s words echoed throughout the depths of my disconsolate mind.
“Go back to wherever actually made your sick ass happy.”
Alright.
I sped across country roads and highways alike, blasting Red Hot Chili Peppers and Lady Gaga’s Artpop album the whole way. Then I discovered a familiar bridge. The one I had run across hundreds of times before. I practically flew across it. I slowed down to a snail’s pace as I gazed upon that centuries-old gravel. A sense of nostalgic joy jolted through my body, and I took the opportunity to visit the old house.
…My visit was cut short.
An American flag was planted by the front door. A few cars filled the driveway, and dim light poured through the windows. I saw the silhouette of a jovial kid. Even in my tipsy state, I knew I couldn’t get any closer to the house. A family lived there -a happy family- and the last thing those folks needed was some pompous, drunk asshole waltzing his way around their property. Theirs. Yeah, it certainly wasn’t mine anymore.
For some reason, that made me unbelievably sad. A part of me was honestly hoping to see a “for sale” sign. A part of me was hoping to return to the house. I missed it; I missed everything. I missed the crooked doorframe, I missed the view of downtown, I missed the bridge, I missed the garage roof. I missed that rural, small-town vibe. I missed my old life. But it was far too late to go back. The house was populated, and I was too messed up to just suddenly resemble the happy kid I once was. I had to leave it all behind.
So, I drove away. But in the depths of my mind, a shimmer of ambition shone through.
Maybe I couldn’t return to the house, but I could still reside in the town.
I stopped at a Dollar General to buy some cheap alcohol. I really hoped they had a nice brand of whiskey—that always got me in the mood to think and strive for more. But then, in the refrigerated section, it suddenly dawned on me.
Oh yeah. I wasn’t old enough to purchase any of that shit. That’s why I got pissy at my roommate’s refusal to buy me some liquor in the first place.
Well, damn. I guess I’d just have to buy some Sprite, or maybe some water, or whatever the hell sober people were supposed to drink. And I’d better memorize the cashier’s face, since I would be getting used to it if I lived around there.
But she gave me a judgmental stare. Actually, I got a lifetime’s worth of those in that store. Something about the way I looked, the way I presented myself, was so foreign and out of place to those people. They seemed to despise me for it. I didn’t even get a “thank you, have a nice day” on the way out. All I got was some older guy in a suit calling me a certain slur after the two of us bumped shoulders. I shuffled into my car, and I couldn’t help but laugh.
Within the fogged view of childhood memories, I had never realized the type of straight-laced, sober town I lived in. I was truly forced to give up on my stupid plan. A guy like me had strayed too far away from that innocent, anklet-wearing little kid, and my old town wouldn’t accept that. There was no place for a fuck up like me; living there would only cause a plethora of inconveniences and suffering for everyone.
So, once again, that was that. I drove out of town the way I came, and I went crawling back to my father’s house.
Not to live, of course. I was just there to get what I wanted. My father really wasn’t too distraught about the fact that I had abandoned the family for three years. Geez. The only real good thing about that old sleaze is that you can get nearly anything you want if you just listen to him ramble for a few days. So I did just that; half-listening to his opinions on each and every one of my aunts and uncles, rolling my eyes as he went on a tangent about how immigrants were supposedly ruining America. I was reminded of just how much I hate old people.
After a few days of rinsing and repeating, I finally asked for an apartment. Any apartment, I didn’t care where. I just needed a place to stay. He granted me that.
…If life were to play out naturally, I would’ve never seen that house again, never been such a drunken asshole again, and I would’ve moved on.
For a long time, that didn’t happen. But recently, I made a slight turnaround in my life. Some of you might be aware. I’d say I’ve been doing pretty well, honestly. I’ve been in a sort of detox phase, purging all the shit from my body. It’s hard, but I’ve quit drinking, though I still know my way around a bottle. I’m pretty sure I know how to make a drink more than I know how to ride a bike. So, as I’ve said before, I’m a bartender now. Also, I think it’s worth noting I would fit in much better within that town; I look a lot more “normal” nowadays. And I’ve been going out. Having some fun.
I do my thing with these shitty posts; write, make little character notes, scroll through the internet. I dunno, it’s not the best, and I’m certainly not the best at anything I do (there was an era with my posts where I got unmotivated, and those were especially mediocre), but I think I have a cute little life. And when you have a cute little life, the only thing you want to do—the only thing you can do, is to improve it.
I just happened to overhear some guys talking about it a few weeks ago. How boring everything is, and how they planned to go out of town and have some real goddamn fun. Something about those words held the key to a door hidden within vague, half-forgotten memories. But I couldn’t exactly put my finger on it, no matter how much I tried. And I really did try. Luckily for me, father fate threw a bone my way.
Those two guys mentioned the festival by its name.
…Huh.
I’ve never noticed how much I truly thought about that festival. I’ve always liked carnival stuff, but it was more profound than that. When I was younger, writing my stupid
stories, I always crammed a small-town carnival somewhere in the plot. As a young teenager, I’d have the occasional recurring dream revolving around what that Sunday would’ve entailed if we didn’t move.
Actually, the more I thought about it, I realized that most of my dreams occur in either my old house or the downtown streets. Subconsciously, my heart still belonged to that town. I could pretend I had left it behind, but that was a lie. I thought about the house all the time. I fantasized about somehow getting myself into college and sleeping in that ex-porch once again. Simply living my life wouldn’t give me closure; it wouldn’t outshine the shimmer of these fantasies. But perhaps going to the festival would appease me; maybe it would leave me a satisfied man. Maybe I could plan out a more idealistic life. Well, I certainly had to go.
I had it all planned out. I invited Sherri to come with me, to which she agreed. I got up that Sunday with a giddiness I’m borderline embarrassed to talk about, but how could I not be excited? This was the moment my preteen self had been dying to experience. Writing about carnival recreation could only be so amusing. To truly indulge in it was a whole different beast. It would be fun, genuinely fun, and I would be right by my most faithful patron’s side.
I picked her up at noon. After that, I asked about how her job was going. She liked that, though she didn’t like her career as much.
That’s why she visits the bar so frequently. Her job is distressing, she hates the people around her, and she just wants to be a nameless drunkard after she clocks out.
For a little while, that was all I knew her as. That was all anyone knew her as; the unnamed girl with glasses and kinky curls who always ordered a Paloma. But one day, she looked at me before chuckling and reaching for a pen resting in her pocket. She instructed me to give her my hand, and she promptly wrote…her professional email address. Then she stumbled towards the door and told me to give her a call, as though she had given me her number.
So it’s safe to say we’ve been friends since.
All of my “internet pals” are faraway perverts, and my coworkers are jaded acquaintances. Out of all the people I know, Sherri’s the most pleasant. So naturally, I went to the festival with her.
We gave some of the tiny tents a look before going onto the main event. I took a trip down nostalgia lane, and I had fun on all the rides. Honestly, I thought about how awesome it would be to give the carnival attractions a whirl while I was high. When I expressed this out loud, Sherri laughed at me. I won her a couple of prizes, and we ate some funnel cake before walking along the river. We had a great time.
…But if it were simply a great time, I wouldn’t be posting this.
The truth was that my eyes couldn’t stop trailing off towards my old house. A few recently overgrown trees sheathed the roof, yet I was still desperate to catch glimpses of it. Sherri took notice.
“You used to live around here, yeah?”
“Yeah.” I pointed to a specific spot along the trail, “this is where I used to write all my shitty stories.”
“Oh?”
I pointed to another spot farther ahead, “and that’s where I swore this guy in a van was gonna kidnap me.”
She laughed. I shook my head.
“God, I was such a paranoid kid. I was so scared of the stupidest shit. I ran all the way home just to avoid the van guy.”
“Would you say that your old house is within walking distance?”
“You can definitely say that. It’s just over the bridge.”
I forced myself not to freeze as I felt her hand interlock with mine.
“How about we go check it out?”
I can’t lie when I say my heart fluttered upon hearing her offer. It was all so easy to envision, seeing the old Victorian house as my shoes brushed against the old gravel. Feeling the solace breeze and hearing the insects buzz, gazing at a pretty “for sale” sign. All I would have to do was listen to my father ramble for a few days before asking him if I could buy the house. With some of my own money and furniture, I could make it real nice. The only downside was that I’d have a lot of empty rooms—a lot of empty space.
A lot of empty space is also what I saw as the river below flooded my view. Once again, just as I had so many years ago, I watched the ruthless current take everything it could. I ran my free hand across the bridge as I walked. I recalled when I nearly jumped off just to screw with my friends. A series of other memories blessed my brain. Before I could tell Sherri about my old theory on the town’s alleged Bogeyman, she told me something.
From the faint whispers of her memory, she recalled her years spent in an old house not too far from the festival. She lived next to a girl who shared her name, and they bonded the way kids do. Once Sherri moved, she only saw the other Sherri one time afterward in a Walmart. It was the little things like that she remembered about her childhood. I thought that was cute, but of course, I couldn’t hold a sentiment resembling hers.
The house was by no means little. For a year, it was constantly present, forever stuck in my memory. I thought about the tragedies that unfolded when I lived there; I haven’t even touched upon some. Honestly, I almost plan to take some of my traumas to the grave. But knowing the things I faced, it was instinctual to hate the house, yet I never had it in me to do so.
…Despite it all, I was still happy there. I was a bright, bubbly kid. There was a spark in my soul that died once I left, and I desperately hoped to reclaim it. Maybe I could at the very least get some comfort, viewing the house that I recalled so fondly.
I began to walk a bit faster. An older dog barked at Sherri and me as we passed by. She laughed.
“What is that dog barking at?”
“Nothing.” Just as it always was.
I passed by the old garage and told Sherri about my mellow moments on the rooftop. Then I pointed at the ground and told her about the time I found an animal’s heart in that exact spot. She looked ahead.
“Your house is just up there, right?”
“Yep.”
I didn’t waste time. I walked at a brisk pace, eager to bask in the house’s presence—eager to see my old home and even call it my own once more.
…That was weird. The foundation looked very brown. The grass looked a bit overgrown too. And what was with the rancid furniture outside?
…Oh.
Oh.
Police tape littered the driveway.
The pastel pistachio green I had grown to love dinged into something much more bleak. For a second, I didn’t even understand what I was looking at.
Sharp shards of glass coated the gravel, pieces of burnt wood dropped from their original placement, and foul, crooked roof shackles dangled below. Some touched the ground. The large window I had looked out of countless times before lacked any glass pane. Muddy water graced the gravel. Unkept grass scraped the outer walls, and weeds festered below. Everything was a complete and utter mess.
I froze. Sherri let go of my hand to let hers rest upon my tense shoulder.
“Good lord, what happened?”
In a frantic frenzy, I yanked a lighter out of my pocket. As soon as I saw the flame flicker, I pressed it to my hand. Come on. It has to be a dream. Please be a dream. Please.
“Alex!” She smacked the lighter away from me, “cut it out, don’t do anything stupid!”
“It’s ruined.” It didn’t make any sense. Everything around it was fine. Everything surrounding the house was nearly just as I left it, only kindly kissed by the turns of time. The garage was the same. The other places were the same. The trees were the same. So why? Why was my house the only one to finally fail time’s trials? And why, after all this time? For centuries, it was a testament. It was a masterpiece, flaws and all. A question far more sinister than the rest lingered in my mind.
…What happened to the jolly family that lived there?
Sherri speculated what could’ve gone down. A large fire was most certainly involved, though the distraught furniture left outside painted a much uglier picture than a simple fire. But her words fell like silent drops into a black abyss. A plethora of emotions fogged my senses. What was I supposed to think? What was I supposed to do? I had it all planned out, only for life to pull the rug from underneath me. Just…as it always did. God.
For a second, everything else seemed meaningless. All I wanted to care about was my sorrows over the muddle I had once called my home, but Sherri’s words finally reached me. They drew me in like a magnet.
“Wanna go inside?”
I hesitated for a second. On the one hand, I knew just how dangerous something like that could be. I’m just gonna say it outright: going on the inside was an unbelievably stupid and reckless idea. But I was too invested to say no. As crushing as it was, I needed to see more. All I could do at that moment was ask for some closure, some sense of tranquility. Besides, I didn’t want to look like a pussy in front of Sherri.
“Yeah, let’s go.”
A car passed by as we ducked below the police tape and approached the driveway. I can only imagine how it looked; a boy and a girl sneaking into an abandoned, detached house near a thick forest. That driver, wherever they are now, probably thinks we were a duo of young perverts. I tried not to think about it too much as I made it up the gravel driveway.
Instead, I tried to ignore my downhearted disbelief and focus on the positive stuff. I recalled some fond memories before looking toward the fountain divot. The stream had overflowed, dribbling to the front door. We snuck to the back, near the ex-patio, where I muttered in disbelief. It was all so surreal. To see the house I loved in such a state, to just stand and look at its remains…didn’t feel real. It didn’t feel right. I pointed to the spot the lounging chair used to rest.
“That’s where I wrote stories sometimes. I used to draw in that spot too.” My mom overdosed right there. Of course, I kept that hidden from Sherri.
The door leading to my old room somehow got ripped off its hinges, and there wasn’t even a single sign of the damn thing—just an empty doorway, leading to a far more messy sight.
God, it was so much worse on the inside.
The carpets were completely gone. Hidden under all the fiberglass and torn walls were simply ash. For a second, I doubted if there was even solid ground, but my worries proved meaningless. There was a hard floor, and it creaked with every step. Nothing about my room was even remotely similar or comforting; the only thing that vaguely stayed was the view of downtown. I didn’t bother to look.
“This is crazy!”
She didn’t have to tell me that. If I closed my eyes, I could practically see everything as it used to be. It was such a stark contrast to the shambles in front of my opened eyes. I sighed as I thought about it.
But that’s when we heard a thud.
The floorboards were always very creaky. Even the slightest movement from anywhere in the house could be heard. I paused as the sudden noise simmered through the air. Sherri and I were surrounded by ash and borderline unidentifiable rubble. We put ourselves in a very vulnerable position, only comforted by the halfwitted hope that nobody else was in our presence. But this noise shattered any sense of optimism.
Our strained ears picked up on things unnoticeable to inattentive ones. We genuinely tried to listen, blindly hoping the noise was a one-off occurrence. It wasn’t.
Footsteps greeted my ears with a daunting subtly.
Someone else was definitely with us.
This stranger didn’t seem to be alone, either. I picked up various footsteps, simultaneous yet out of the grasp of unison. My blood turned to ice.
What was I supposed to do? Obviously there was an exit only a few feet away, but how was I supposed to reach it under such a terrorizing trance? I was frozen in fear, practically paused in time. A group of people could easily do whatever they wanted with us; we were defenseless against their numbers. Questions plagued my mind. Were they dangerous? Were they squatters? Would they notice us? Would they pursue us if we tried to flee the scene?
I looked at Sherri in an attempt to both give and receive some comfort. Instead, I got a racing heart and a glimpse of the working woman’s trembling face. At that moment, it looked contrastingly pale as her pupils trailed off to the dark living room, covered in grime and debris. Her eyes bloated to the size of saucers, and she pointed a shaky finger. I watched, overshadowed by dread and confusion. Her lips slowly uttered a bone-chilling question. I couldn’t really understand it at first, but before I knew it, my desperate mind picked the pieces up. I glued her soft words together.
Do you see that too?
….