5, Memory Lane

It was almost impossible to pass before 5 Memory Lane and not stop for a second, not look back, not take a second to wonder what exactly it was about this place that looked so impossibly familiar. It was a building just like any other of the other buildings on the street: an ordinary flat roof, washed-out grey bricks, a black front door, the shine of the paint dulled by the years. The only feature that distinguished it from the neighbouring houses were the vines that crept up the left wall; in the winter, those too blended in with the rest of the greys and whites and browns.

It was a nice enough neighbourhood, neither posh nor poor, neither new nor old. Families lived there, and older couples whose children had long moved away. There were twinkling lights strung up between the lampposts at Christmas, picnics in the park in the summer. Little dogs strutted about on brightly coloured leashes, their owners trotting behind them and exchanging smiles with neighbours they knew by name and not much more.

Jules was walking with their parents the first time they saw the house, skulking behind with music blaring in their cheap headphones. Their mum and dad had insisted on exploring their new neighbourhood, hoping to find a nice new coffee shop or a quaint boutique. Dismissing Jules’ pleas—please just Google it or something—the Saunders pressed on in the damp March morning despite their child’s grumbles.

“It’ll be more fun!” Dad had said.

“You used to love exploring!” Mum had chimed in.

They had. Still did, but exploring streets lined with rows and rows of identical suburban houses did not quite fit their idea of “fun.” It was no use arguing with Mum and Dad, however, and so there Jules was, shivering a little in their leather jacket, wishing they were back home in the village. Chasmere had been their home for years, before Dad’s job forced them to move closer to the big city. Jules could still stroll through the flower-lined streets in their mind’s eye, still take a left turn past the Greenmans’ garden and follow the path down to Elderwich Forest, which had surprises in store for them no matter how many times they walked its mossy trails.

And so, on that damp March morning, they were walking behind their parents, but also along the familiar trail that led down to Elder Creek. If they tried hard enough, they could almost pretend that the smell of rain-soaked concrete that hung in the air was the scent of wet forest ground.

Just before reaching the creek, Jules almost crashed into their mum, who had stopped abruptly in front of 5, Memory Lane, tugging at her husband’s sleeve.

“Always with their head in the clouds, this one,” their dad had teased, steadying Jules before they lost their balance.

Jules huffed.

“Why are we stopping?”

“This house, look…” Mum said. “Doesn’t it look… Isn’t there something about it?”

“It looks old,” Jules observed with a shrug. “Can we keep moving?”

Still, though they’d never admit it to their parents, they too had felt the strange pull of the house. They felt it again the next day on the way to school, and the next. On Wednesday afternoon, curiosity got the best of them, and, backpack still slung over their shoulder, they stepped up to the dull black front door. The brass number 5 was slightly askew; it too had lost its shine to the years. The air smelled strange, as if someone had lit a candle, and … something else, mingling with the scents of smoke and mildew, something Jules knew very well.

Pine needles, though there was not a single pine tree to be seen. Furrowing their brow, they walked up the creaky wooden stairs that led up to the door. The pull got stronger as they stepped closer, an intense need to know what was behind that door that overshadowed any self-consciousness they might have felt walking up to a house that wasn’t there, overshadowed the moment of hesitation they had before putting their hand on the handle.

They drew it back almost immediately. The handle was warm, though all the lights in the house were off and there was no car in the driveway.

Deep breath, Jules, they told themselves. It’s just a boring old house. The door’s not going to open, and you’re going to go home before someone sees you and thinks you’re some kind of teenage thief.

The door opened.

It was obvious that no one had lived in the house for years; there was no furniture, no decorations on the wall, no dust, no grime, nothing except the smell of candles and pine trees, stronger now.

Has anyone lived in this house, ever? Jules wondered, running their finger along the impeccable banister. The empty hallway should have deterred them, and yet they pressed on, making their way to the backdoor, past the empty kitchen and the oddly small bedrooms. That door handle was warm too, but Jules did not recoil this time, hoping to find something, anything. Anything that could explain what was going on with this too-clean, too-empty, too-familiar house. Maybe the back garden had a pine tree? That would explain the smell, at the very least.

Jules was expecting a creak as they opened the old door, but there was no sound, just a gush of fresh air. The candle smell had all but dissipated by now, leaving only the heady scent of not just one pine tree, but a whole forest of them. Their forest, exactly as they remembered it. The path to Elder Creek was not one many knew about, yet there were footprints on the damp soil; when Jules took a cautious step forward, they found that the prints matched their shoes exactly. A smile crept on their lips. None of this was right, none of this should be happening, but they felt strangely at peace as they walked down the path.

It was cloudy out when they had left school, a fine mist creating droplets in their mouse-brown hair; here, the sun was beginning to dapple the ground and warm the back of their neck. This can’t be real, they marvelled, but the forest did not feel like a dream nor a hallucination. They could feel the sticky bark of the pine tree they leaned against, feel the low ferns brush against their ankle as they kept on walking towards the creek.

Jules spent what felt like hours sunbathing by Elder Creek, taking in all the sounds and scents of their childhood forest. When they finally forced themselves to get up and head back, the afternoon sun was still shining high above their head.

Back through the forest, then, and through the house with its white walls and still-warm door handles, a smile still floating on their lips, a handful of pine needles in their pocket.

The warmth faded as they made their way through the empty hallway; the smell, too, even as Jules rubbed the pine needles between their fingers. By the time they exited the house, there was nothing left of it, and they could not remember what they had seen in the back garden, what had possessed them to enter this very ordinary house. Slightly embarrassed but still smiling, Jules headed home. Days later, they would find fragrant pine needles in the pocket of their jeans and frown—surely these had been washed since they left Chasmere. Their mum washed the jeans, but Jules insisted on keeping the pine needles, which stayed strangely warm to the touch no matter how long they sat on their dresser.