The house at the end of the lane had been there since before I was born. It had a crimson cottage roof. Everyone who claimed to have gone inside of it said the interior was much larger than it appeared from the road. Although it was a part of my upbringing, it became another decorative set piece of life-as-usual for me. Every other kid who grew up on the block felt the same way. It was a place as mundane as the red wallpaper that comprised its inside.
For as long as I could recall, there was never a steady resident in the house. Rumors abounded that a local band recorded something unreleased there. It was a doom-laden Black Sabbath-inspired track listing influenced by acid. The group called themselves Forgotten Meadow. This tale was often dismissed as a local myth. My father claimed to have seen the members coming and going in their van. They were always accused of using Occultist rites. One song had a title I remember, Astral Projection.
My Dad had always described the lyrics about traveling outside of the human form. The subject does so in search of some sort of eternal knowledge. I always accused his entire generation of being a bunch of hippies who smoked way too much pot. I had no time for their stone—fueled nonsense.
I moved out of that small and leafy town, forever in a flood of autumnal foliage, and went to college.
I came back twice a year to visit my folks during the Holiday season, and passing the house became a ritual I enjoyed. I took it for granted during my youth, but seeing it later on was nostalgic in a way.
One morning when I was there, I went outside as the familiar scent of the air before it rains was all around. I decided to go for a jog. As I neared the corner, I watched as a Honda sped down the road. It crossed the sidewalk, destroyed the lawn with tread marks, and crashed into the house. The sound of glass shattering and the roof caving in washed over me.
Screams from a woman emanated down the block. Even with my five years of driving in my college town, where lots of people drove intoxicated, I never saw a crash.
I ran towards the wreckage. The shrieks of horror were not coming from one of the passengers or driver. Instead it was a pedestrian who was across the way, who had been walking her dog.
The vehicle was upside down. I neared it and realized I had crossed what used to be the threshold of the domicile. Now it was a makeshift construction site of damaged plaster and debris.
A bloodied and broken arm was sticking out of the driver’s side. The wheels spun and smoke drifted from the hood. There was only one individual I could see, and he craned his neck to get a better view of me, his mouth opened. This gesture revealed a set of shattered teeth. The remnants had scattered across the airbags.
I was slow to realize the truth of the matter.
A chill swept through me as I realized the vehicle was one my family owned.
The man struggling to stay alive behind the wheel was me.
I survived with tremendous amounts of psychological agony. The buzz from the whiskey I drank earlier could not erase what happened.
I will never forget that out-of-body experience.