That House

The stink of mold and rot seeped between the bowed planks of the floor. The peachy pink wall paper had long lost it's youthful cheer. It pealed away from the walls in curling slivers. What little sun managed to break through the dirty newspaper covered windows did little to temper the shadows that crawled across the creaking floor. Dust hung stagnant in the atmosphere almost thicker than the air itself.

In the corner of the living room a three and a half legged chair balanced precariously against the wall, teetering over a broke floorboard. A silence seeped from the patchy plush carpet, rising to my ears with a deafening hum. I stepped gingerly across the floor cringing at every creak, afraid I'd wake the house from it's sleep. My heart seamed to rattle in my chest, where the fear came from I wasn't sure but it was far from enough to stifle the curiosity that egged me onward.

Up the back stairs that seemed to be held together by denial alone.

Through the dark hall, scattered with shattered window panes.

I didn't know what possessed me so but I needed to know what had happened here, in these halls, in these rooms, behind these doors that clung to their hinges. Where was the little old lady I'd seen long ago? That night when she'd stood like a ghost by the rode, with her silver white hair and silky white robe, was she ever really there? Would I ever really know?

As I crept through the house, where no one should wander, I looked for my answers but kept my voice low. As alone as I seemed, it didn't feel so. The house, it held something, I felt it. But what? We may never quite know.