You know those creepy houses? The ones that always seem off, for some reason that you can’t quite pin.
There used to be one on my street corner.
The house just stood there, shrubbery and all. Somehow, despite the air of decay that the yard seemed to have, the plants were thriving.
I drove by it every day on my way to work, and I always took note of how beautiful it was while waiting for the light to turn green. It was a bit weird, though. Something about it just seemed very off putting. However, I didn’t think much of it. Just shoved the thought away and told myself that I was just convincing myself there was something I should be scared of.
After all, it was a really nice house.
Even that man that lived there seemed nice. I never got a look at his face, but his outfit was nice. He had this hat, kind of like the ones paper boys wore back in the eighties, and he always wore this coat that reminded me of my father’s coat when I was younger.
He was out gardening nearly every day. I always tried to talk to him, and he always seemed to just ignore me. At least, I thought he was ignoring me.
I told my mom about him over dinner one day, because I was annoyed that he just wouldn’t stop ignoring me. She, thankfully, informed me that he was probably deaf and not ignoring me.
I was surprised I didn’t realize sooner, seeing as my father was deaf.
The next week, things got a bit odd. My mom was headed to town that day for some groceries, and offered to take me to work.
I pointed out the house on the way there. My mom said something along the lines of, “what house” and, “are you seeing things again?“
That threw me off because, since when did I hallucinate?
Assuming she was just messing around, I laughed it off and told her that I was just joking with her.
It was not a joke.
The next day I drove by the house, as usual.
This time, the man was outside watering his garden. I yelled hello, as per the daily routine.
I thought that the last thing I expected was for him to look at me and wave back. The last thing I actually expected was for him to look exactly like my father did.
My father, who was mostly deaf, and who owned the exact same coat that this man—my father—had been wearing. The gears in my head all clicked together at once, and I raced to get out of the car.
When I looked up, the man was gone and the house was reduced to a burnt skeleton of what I’d just seen a moment ago.
I told my mom about it, as per usual. She looked at me weirdly and said, “honey, your father’s been dead for years now.”
I responded with a shrug and said that it was, ‘just another one of my outrageous stories.’ Whatever that meant.
I was put off by it, though. How could I have forgotten about my own father’s death?