The Red House on Strayer Road

The red house stood quiet under the heat. The kind of dry July stillness that made the air hum.

Gavin wiped sweat off his forehead. His boots crunched over gravel as he crossed the yard. He hadn’t been here in thirteen years. Not since the fire.

A tire swing still hung from the oak tree out front. Rotted rope. Flies buzzed near the screen door. No sound inside. The porch sagged in the middle. A broken step creaked under his weight.

He knocked once. Waited.

Nothing.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the key. The brass was worn smooth. His fingers shook.

He stared at the doorknob a moment too long. His thumb brushed over the teeth of the key. The kind of hesitation that carried weight. Not fear—remorse. Then he slid it in.

The lock gave with a soft click.

Inside smelled like dust and old paper. Yellow light cut through closed blinds. The air was thick. Heavy with the kind of silence that felt personal. The walls still had his mother’s wallpaper—faded roses peeling in spots.

He stood still for a minute. Let the quiet sink in. His throat was dry.

He looked toward the hallway.

Toward that door.

Then: footsteps on the stairs.

A voice called out, uneasy and sharp. "Who’s there?"

Gavin turned.

Anna stood in the hall in a wrinkled t-shirt and jeans. Barefoot. Her eyes wide. Her mouth open.

She blinked hard. "Gavin?" Her voice broke like the name surprised her.

He gave a small nod.

"You shouldn’t be here," Anna said, voice tight with disbelief.

"I know," Gavin replied, steady but quiet.

"You’re not supposed to—"

"I know," he cut in again, firmer this time.

She stepped closer, slow, like he might vanish. Her voice cracked. "Jesus. After all this time?"

"I had to see you," Gavin said, eyes not leaving hers.

Anna leaned against the wall like her knees had buckled. She looked older. He did too. Same green eyes, though. Same scar under her chin from when she fell off the porch railing.

"You could’ve called," she murmured.

He shook his head. "No. I couldn’t," he said, voice low.

Her jaw tensed. "Why now?" Anna demanded.

Gavin looked down the hall. Toward the door at the end. The one with the broken knob. He didn’t answer her question.

She followed his eyes. Her voice dropped to a warning. "No. Don’t."

"I have to," Gavin said, not looking at her.

"Gavin—" Anna started.

"I just need five minutes," he said, more like a plea than a demand.

Anna’s voice softened. "He’s not here."

"I know," Gavin whispered.

"Then why are you doing this?" she asked, not angry—just tired.

He didn’t speak. Just walked past her. Hand brushed the wall like he was steadying himself.

The door creaked open.

Same room. Same smell. Wood floor. No furniture. Just the scorch marks on the floorboards. A round black stain near the window.

He knelt beside it. Pressed his palm to the burn mark. Closed his eyes.

And there it was.

The slam of the back door.

The flick of the match.

The rush of flame.

It had caught faster than he expected—leapt straight up the curtains, across the couch, licking at the ceiling.

He’d backed away, hands up like it might change his mind.

A pop.

A scream.

His own voice—maybe—shouting his father’s name.

Too late.

Then silence.

"You should’ve let me take the blame," Anna said from behind him, her voice soft but heavy.

He turned to face her. "No," Gavin said, shaking his head.

"You were seventeen," she reminded him, voice shaking.

"You were fifteen," he replied flatly.

"But you didn’t even—"

"I lit the match," Gavin cut her off, no room for argument.

Anna bit her lip. "You didn’t know he was in there."

"I did," he said, like the truth weighed more than the years between them.

Silence stretched between them.

Anna stepped inside. Her arms crossed tightly over her chest.

"You thought he’d left," she said, almost like a question.

"I saw his truck. I knew he was passed out upstairs. I still lit it," Gavin admitted.

Her eyes filled with tears. "Why?" Anna asked, voice cracking.

He looked out the window. Cornfield stretched far and wide. Sun low now. Orange on the stalks.

"You know why," Gavin said, almost to himself.

Anna sat down against the wall. Legs folded up. "He hit me once. I could’ve handled it," she said, staring at the floor.

"I couldn’t," Gavin said, voice tight.

"You shouldn’t have done it," Anna whispered.

"I know," Gavin answered.

She stared at the stain on the floor.

"You remember how he’d scream?" Anna asked, almost too quiet. "That night he came home drunk and kicked the dog?"

Gavin nodded.

"I thought maybe he’d change," she said. "After Mom died."

"He got worse," Gavin replied.

Anna wiped her cheek. "He used to read to me, you know? When I was little. From that book with the train."

Gavin’s voice dropped. "He used to take me fishing. Then he started drinking. Then hitting."

Anna looked at him. "He hit you too," she said, the realization dawning.

"Yeah. For years. You just didn’t see it. I kept it quiet. I didn’t want you to be scared," Gavin admitted.

She didn’t speak. Her eyes stared through the wall.

"I stayed in this house. After. I fixed the porch. Got a job in town. I kept waiting for you to come back," she said, each word weighed with patience.

"I thought about it," Gavin said, voice cracked. "I didn’t know if I deserved to."

Anna opened her mouth, then closed it. She looked at him, swallowed, and said, “I used to talk to Mom out loud. After you left. At night. Just... pretend she was still here.”

Her breath hitched. One second. Then she straightened her spine like it never happened.

Gavin’s hand touched the floor like he could still feel the heat from the fire. "I thought I’d feel better."

"But you don’t," Anna said softly.

He shook his head. "It’s like he’s still here. Like the house never forgot."

Anna’s voice was quiet. "Why come back now?"

He looked up at her. "Because last week I lit a cigarette and the flame looked just like it did that night. And I thought if I came back, maybe it’d burn out of me. I didn’t come for you. I came to face it," Gavin said, eyes haunted.

Anna nodded, slow. "You’re still carrying it," she said.

"I always will," Gavin replied.

She pulled her knees in close. "You should tell the cops," Anna said.

"I thought about it," Gavin admitted.

"Still?" she asked, eyebrows raised.

"Yeah," he said.

Anna stared at the floor. "It’s been thirteen years."

"And not a night goes by. I see him in dreams. I hear the floorboards creak. I smell the smoke," Gavin said, like confessing it out loud made it more real.

Gavin stood. "I’ll leave," he said.

She followed him down the stairs. Past the old family photos, still on the wall. Past the cracked front door.

Outside, cicadas screamed in the trees.

"Do you remember what he said the last time he saw me?" Gavin asked.

Anna shook her head.

"He told me I was nothing. That I’d never be free of him. I wanted to prove him wrong," Gavin said, voice hard.

Gavin turned back to her. "I’m sorry," he said.

"I know," Anna replied.

"I shouldn’t have left you," he said, voice low.

"You thought you had to," she answered without blame.

He nodded.

Anna looked at him a long time. "You going to turn yourself in?"

He looked out at the road. The truck parked just beyond the ditch.

"I don’t know," Gavin said.

She stepped forward. Touched his arm. "Whatever you do," Anna said gently, "don’t vanish again."

He held her gaze. Then nodded. "I won’t."

She stepped back. Closed the screen door.

He walked to the truck. Started the engine. Rolled down the window. He sat there a second. Hands on the wheel.

Anna stood in the doorway. Watching.

He drove off.

The red house in the mirror got smaller. Then disappeared.

But the flame stayed with him.

And this time, he wasn’t running from it. Not anymore.