Rotting House

I’ve decided that only one thing in life is true: parents don’t know anything about kids and kids really shouldn’t try to understand parents. 

In all my fifteen years of living, I’ve realized that it isn’t a wise choice to pry into adult affairs; rather, when you hear your dad say things like “we can’t afford the funeral that my sister wanted” or when you hear your mom bite back “well she’s dead, so it shouldn’t matter anyway”, you should probably stick your nose back where it was before you tried to overhear an important conversation. Otherwise, you just get confused, and you’re worse off than you were before you began. 

The funeral’s tomorrow -- the cheaper, more affordable funeral -- and it’s going to take place at my aunt’s house. Before she died, she left a short and concise will behind that read only, “my cat goes to Sarah and my house goes to Ethan -- God knows what he’ll do with it.”

Yeah, so that would be me -- Ethan -- stuck with some rotting house no one else wants because my aunt was a recluse and never really talked to us anyway. I know I’m supposed to feel sad that she’s gone, dead from a freak car accident, but all I feel is a kind of hollowness. Like, I had only met her once a week ago, days before she died, so maybe I should feel lucky? That I got to meet her, anyway. But man she was weird. Like a witch on steroids -- all Bellatrix hair and black lipstick. 

I stick my headphones in my ears and try to ignore my jabbering sister Kelly in the car seat next to me as she asks, “Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet?” Like a freaking broken record. 

My parents are unusually quiet -- they haven’t talked much to me since my aunt died -- and I almost say something about how I don’t even want this house -- I’m guessing it’s more like a shack than anything -- before I think better of it. They’ll just tell me to be grateful, I think to myself. They never listen to me.

The drive to the manor is supposed to take five hours, which I’m expecting will go by slower than extra-slimy snails, but I guess I fell asleep at some point because the next thing I know, there we are -- right in front of my late Aunt Farah’s house. (It was Farah, Sarah, and my dad Ryan. Someone really messed up the sibling rhyming scheme there.) 

I’ve gotten pretty good at keeping my expressions disinterested most of the time but my jaw actually drops as I take it in. The house isn’t really a house; it’s a mansion, painted all black and stretching toward the sky like in some kind of horror movie. Weeds grow all around its edges, and wilting flowers droop with fatigue on the dead lawn. The shingles on the roof are beginning to fall off and the door is cracked open. I almost laugh. No wonder Aunt Farah didn’t make it; anyone who lived here would be doomed. 

I crack a smile and launch out of the car, jogging up to the front door and thrusting it open. My parents call after me and I hear my sister whining about something -- probably about how she can’t get out of her car seat -- but I don’t care. This place is gothic as hell, and I love it. 

The first thing I notice is that the temperature drops about twenty degrees the moment I walk through the door. I take out my headphones and hang them around my neck and wish I brought a sweater. It’s the end of summer, sure, but we’re only staying a couple of nights. I packed lightly, and definitely not for winter. 

Black-and-white pictures are hanging crooked on the walls -- images of people who must be long dead, based on the quality of the photos -- and the only furniture is a very dusty velvet sofa and a television with actual antennae. Layers of dust and grime cover everything, even the lacy black rug thrown on the ground, and I walk slowly, coughing as I disturb the dust and it floats into the air. 

There’s no way someone could’ve lived here, I think to myself, shaking my head in wonder. Well, I concede, Aunt Farah was pretty strange. When I met her, she kept asking me what I thought my purpose was in life, like I would even know. But then she’d switch topics mid-sentence, and I’d question how we were even related. 

I make my way through the living room and then into the kitchen, which I make a face at. There are no modern cooking tools, only wooden spoons set out on a table for two, glass red plates, and a bottle of old wine; the stove seems to be gas-powered and the cabinets are the color of tree trunks. 

Out of curiosity I open a few of the cabinets, and although the hinges creak loudly enough to make me wince, they’re completely bare inside but for a few knitted potholders, a very random oven mitt, some chinaware, and a few spiders that crawl away the moment I look at them. 

I don’t know how much time goes by but I explore every inch of the first story; there’s an ornate hope chest shoved in the corner of the dining room, and when I open it there are only very old dresses and a pair of perfectly white lace gloves. 

That’s useful, I think to myself with a barely withheld groan. Why did I have to end up with this place? It’s not even as cool as I thought it’d be. 

I find that the first story of the house consists of only four rooms and decide to trudge up the creaking staircase to the second floor. It spirals upward for so long I nearly give up the endeavor and head back down, but then I arrive at the top and thoughts of walking away dissipate. 

A long hallway stretches out before me and I wander down the corridor, past more black-and-white photographs of soldiers in the military, of my family generations back (I’m assuming anyway; it’d be a little weird if Aunt Farah had pictures of someone else’s family in what I’m guessing is the early 1900s), and then one of a girl I’ve never seen before, with long white hair and a necklace made of pearls. There are lacy gloves on her fingers and she wears a very serious expression. For a moment I can’t look away from her, but then I shake myself. God, Dad was right -- teenage hormones are a thing. 

I move on and glance into the first bedroom on the right; it’s perfectly arranged, with a small cot for sleeping (though it looks more board-like than bed-like), and move on to the next one, which looks exactly the same. 

Frowning, I open a couple more doors and find them all identical: a single cot and a framed photograph on the wall. 

That’s odd, even for Aunt Farah. What would she even need all these rooms for?

Because I have nothing better to do and because I don’t really want to help unload the car, I walk all the way to the end of the hallway and open the last bedroom door. 

This one is different. There are cobwebs everywhere -- hanging off of the dresser, dangling from the ceiling, clotted in the crevices of the walls. There are old Victorian dolls and other children’s toys, all of which look abused and broken. A ruined toy train lays on its side in front of the massive bed and a wind-up dog stares at me from where it sits on the bed’s black sheets. 

Deciding I’ve definitely had enough, I head back the way I came, down the very long spiral staircase, and walk toward the front door. The urge to get my parents is stronger now, though I assume my role as the uninterested teenager, and then I open the door. 

I freeze. In front of me, rain is coming down in sheets, dark thunderclouds blotting out all light as thunder rumbles madly above. I can barely see three feet in front of me and I’m sure it wasn’t like this earlier; it was sunny and cloudless and there was no hint of rain at all just minutes ago. 

I walk forward and bring up a hand to shield my eyes from the rain but the fog makes it too hard to see anyway. 

“Mom? Dad? Kelly!” I’m yelling out their names but I can’t see them at all. I stumble all the way to the sidewalk but the car is gone. 

“MOM! DAD!” I don’t care that I’m screaming. “ARE YOU THERE?”

My teeth start to chatter and I realize I’ve gotten completely wet, but still, I don’t go back inside. 

Maybe they went to go get something to eat, I think to myself. Maybe they were going to surprise me. 

I know it’s an unlikely thought but that doesn’t matter. Stay rational, I tell myself. They’ll be back any minute now. 

A minute passes. And then another. And then I decide that it’s no use standing out in the rain, getting colder and wetter, and turn around to head back inside. 

I shut the door behind me and sag against it. My jeans are stuck to my legs and my white t-shirt is see-through now. My mom’s gonna kill me. 

Shuddering, I make my way to the kitchen and sit down in one of the two kitchen chairs, running a shaking hand through my wet hair. 

I shut my eyes for a minute and then look up, and immediately cry out. 

“Hello,” says the girl in front of me, who was most certainly not there before. “Come for supper?”

I blink rapidly, but the image of her doesn’t change: long white hair and crystal blue eyes and painted-on blush. She’s pretty but so pale she looks as though she could fade away, and most of her looks fake anyway. 

“Uh,” I manage. I swallow. “Who -- who the hell are you?”

She sips from her teacup and I realize there’s red liquid inside. I think it’s wine. 

“Interesting turn of phrase,” she says, and then, “But the real question is: Who were you, Ethan?”

Her voice is light like jingling bells, and for a moment I don’t comprehend what she’s said. 

“What do you mean were? I’m still here.”

“Yes,” she says, gaze wandering. “And where is here?”

My eyes narrow. “In my aunt’s house,” I say, slow. Is she daft or something? I wonder how she got in here. “Well,” I amend, “I guess it’s my house now.”

Her eyes flick to mine. “Is it?” she asks, delicate as she drinks from her cup again. I glance at her fingers and do a double take -- they’re pale like the rest of her, but they’re also long -- too long. They’re crooked and bend in the wrong places, like the bones weren’t set quite right. 

“Listen,” I say, “I don’t know who you are, but my parents are gonna be here any minute and if they find me talking to you, I don’t think they’ll be too happy.” I’m making this up as I go because she’s starting to creep me out. 

“Oh don’t worry; we have time,” she says, and she doesn’t blink for several moments. I’ve blinked three times by the time she finally closes her eyes. 

“Do you know why you’re here, Ethan?” 

I frown. “For my aunt’s funeral tomorrow. And to see the house, since it’s getting passed down to me.”

She hums something under her breath and I don’t know the song but it makes my heart pick up speed. It’s minor and eerie and it makes me think of old bones. 

She stops. “Do you remember what happened, when you saw your aunt?”

I blink. “Uh, sure.” Why is she asking me this? I rub the back of my neck. “I met her and she dragged me to this boring antique shop, and then we drove home. I didn’t see her after that, but I assume she left right after -- back to this place, before she died.”

“Yes,” says the girl, whose face I’m now thinking is more gray than porcelain. “Yes she did die, but not how you think.” The girl leans forward a little, and the table between us seems to shrink. “Tell me, Ethan, do you remember arriving home from the antique shop that day? Do you remember what really happened that night?”

My heart is pounding now, and I lean back further in my chair. I realize her hair is more stringy than before, and her skin is turning dark gray. Thoughts of bolting away cross my mind, confusion as to how she seems to know everything -- even the things that I’ve refused to think about -- pushing me to get up, run away, escape, but all I do is stand. She follows suit and walks toward me.

“I -- I don’t know --”

Her face is suddenly inches in front of mine. “Do you remember the crash, the storm that night that made it impossible to see? How the rain poured down and your poor Aunt Farah screamed as she lost control of the car?” Her breath smells rotten. “Do you remember how it felt to die with her?”

My breath comes in ragged pants and I turn my head away. It flashes across my mind -- Aunt Farah with her black dress and her black fingernails tapping on the steering wheel. Aunt Farah looking at me as she asked me why I have headphones in all the time, when I could be enjoying the world. Even the rain, she said, wasn’t all that bad. Telling me I need to do something with my life, before she looked up and then -- the crash and then nothing. “No -- no, that’s impossible,” I tell her. “I’m still alive, see? I woke back up.” In my bedroom, safe and sound, the very next morning. I convinced myself it was a dream. “I’m breathing and everything. And my parents’ll be here soon.” But I look down at my hands and realize the skin there is turning gray too, my nails becoming dead and falling to the ground. 

I stop breathing.

Wake up, I tell myself. It’s just another dream.

Unless it isn’t.

Because I do remember. I remember dying, quick and painless, my last breath. I remember the relief I felt when I woke up again, that it was just a dream.

But now, I’m not so sure. And if I died, then that means . . . 

“Ah,” says the girl, who isn’t really a girl. She smiles at me with blackened teeth. “You poor thing. You’ve realized this is the purgatory.” She kisses me on the lips and I feel my body drop to the floor. Somehow, I am still standing beside her, weightless. 

“Have you noticed all the memories scattered about? Those sad, broken toys. The pictures all over the walls. Everything lost souls can’t let go of. Your own family, staring right back at you. But you’ve realized that you haven’t done anything of significance? Hmm. Perhaps that is what you can’t let go of.”

I can’t move.

She sighs. “You still haven’t accepted it, have you?” She’s floating too, toes an inch above the ground, face looking up at mine. I feel hollow, frozen. “You don’t realize that this is what happens to all you lost souls -- you die, and your soul is panicked, and so you come here. This is where all the lost souls go, to this very house.” I look up and my eyes widen. There are ghosts all behind her, staring at us, unblinking. Staring at me. 

I try to say something to her, to tell her she’s wrong, but when I open my mouth no sound comes out. I try again, hands coming up to my throat, only to find that they pass right through me. Like I’m made of air.

“Hmm,” she says. “It seems your body has wasted away. Don’t worry, little lost soul. When you let go, all shall be well.” Finally, she backs away. 

“But until you do, enjoy your stay at my house.” And all the ghosts come toward me.