A haunted house tastes bitter

 "Are you sure?" A man asked a man this story and many others are about.

"I have no choice," the man of the story replied. They were talking about a house in which a man can get lost even when he knows it like the palm of his own hand, a house that haunted with its desolation. He had no choice, he had to go back there and so he started walking, taking the path that took longer but layed on the side of the river.

The house stands on the outskirts of the city where a budding forest kept it company. Pine trees of the surrounding woods are reflecting their silhouettes in its massive French windows which through the shadow of these reflections seem to mask his presence. The trees breathe differently there than in other parts of the forest. They breathe slowly, as slowly as if they weren't even alive, just standing there like massive towers that someone once abandoned. Even the grass is different. It is so lonely that even the morning dew forgets it and the greenery on it seems to cling only out of pity. The gravel that covers the path to the house sounds like undercovered warning getting louder with each step closer to the door.

The gravel that the man walked on by the side of the river reminded him of the sound of the path that leads to the house. He was snapped out of this gravel melody by the sound of a hammer against the hollow wood. The weather was drizzly and there are not many people around the river even in a good weather but a small booth stood there faithfully as did the woman in it with her decorations for sale. Some of the decorations reminded him of the ones hanging on the wall in one of the bedrooms in that house. Just a look at them sent shivers down his spine as did the look at his watch. Time, a faithful runner by his side reminds him of all the feelings and fears the man would soon have to face. Sometimes he tries to escape that time but that time is pinned right to his body. The man tries to run away sometimes as if to jump out of his own skin but time clings to his skin tighter than the absence of stillness. There is no peace to be found even behind the house in the garden which resembles a cheap version of Versailles. Legends say it was once a place where great parties were held, live music was played and life was celebrated. Today, all that remains alive in the garden are the sturdy apple trees and the wind which occasionally whistles gracefully in high notes. The air around the house is invisibly dense and its density is measured in kilograms per square centimeter of human chest. 

The doors are always open because even the house itself knows that no one would dare to enter. The front door leads into a long hallway lined with old wallpaper and dust. The corridor is haunted by a lady in a white veil but the man always found a way to avoid her. If she were standing right in front of him, he knows that he only has to walk exactly twelve steps with his eyes closed to find himself in the living room.

A wooden angel on a carefully arranged display of decorations on a table in the booth caught the man's eye. Perhaps such an angel would save what was left of the house. So the man took the angel who had proportionally somewhat small wings and a red thread around his waist with him. As he was looking at him, the wooden part that made up one wing fell off his body. It was impossible to save it as it had fallen into a deep puddle so deep that the wing could not be pulled out by just one man. In spite of some deformities it will be brought to the house. Looking at the puddle and the wet grass the man remembered that he had forgotten to water the flowers and make his bed again. Suddenly it began to rain so heavily that even the lady by the river began to fold up her little booth. Good thing he'd taken the umbrella. But even though he stayed dry he didn't stay warm. 

A fire used to be set in a fireplace in the house and its melodious crackling inhabited the living room. Now the living room looks as if something was mercilessly murdered there, it is eerily silent and there are dark red stains on the carpet around the antique table. It is a crime scene from which the perpetrators have not shied away from erasing their tracks. You can still feel the presence in the air of all those who were once involved in these acts. Thinking of the acts, most of which the man was part of, the man realizes that in a few moments he will find himself once again at the kitchen table where rituals he cannot forget once took a place.

What better way to warm up than with a glass of good spirit? Two glasses of good spirit, as the man's grandfather, who also knew this house, would say. The man often liked to reminisce about him, all the childhood memories of playing outside with his grandfather as a little boy, shooting apple tree leaves with a rifle or gathering pine cones and sticks from the trees and building massive castle towers from them. Maybe if he's lucky, he'll find some abandoned hospitable bottles in the cabinet above the kitchen counter. 

Suddenly the air began to press his shoulders against his breast bone and that's when he knew he'd be home soon. He paused for a moment in front of the door, his eyelids dropped a fraction lower and a deep inhale exhale as an engine spurred his footsteps across the threshold. He kicked his shoes off his feet one at a time as he walked down the hallway of the house past the wedding photos framed on the wall. On one picture a bride would run towards her new husband and her veil would fly around like a butterfly. This picture used to be his favorite. He walked towards the kitchen in order to make a warm fruit tea and find a liquor flavoring in the cupboard. While the water boiled in the kettle, he ritually sat down at the table and spread a thick slice of butter on a piece of bread. No salt. Dry. Empty. He always looks like a scarecrow in a deserted field when he sits alone at this huge table. The table corners are so sharp that they leave blue kiss prints on the skin if one approaches them very suddenly and closely. When people used to gather there in the evenings for various occasions and traditions, someone would always leave with a bruise on their hip. It was almost like a ritual. The man finished his tea and moved into the living room where he sat down on a chair that perfectly matched the antique table that everyone in the house always liked. Since his breath in the house stands out for its strenght because it is there alone, he's gotten into the habit of sitting in this chair sometimes recollecting memories that probably never even happened. Red stains curl under his feet. One night they were drinking wine and laughing so much that red wine splashed out of both their glasses and landed on the velvet cream carpet. Unfortunately the wine resisted any cleaning products so it became one of the memories that haunt the house to this day.

The smell of the house alternates between memories like this and a bitter loneliness of many days and one man. The air sometimes seems to be transformed into an alloy of bulky oxygen and ideas of how things could have been different. The heavy metals of remorse slide down his throat and leave a taste of iron on the tip of his tongue time to time. Loneliness sometimes has a sour taste and a wet face. It is like a faithful friend of time, the runner, clinging to the same rope that is pinned to a listless body. May angels stand by all those who live in haunted houses.