Return to a childhood long avoided

Scritch… Scritch… Scritch… The branches of a nearby tree scratched against the dirt-covered windows of the house. Scritch… Scritch… Scritch… The only sound that could be heard, apart from the crashing waves of the nearby ocean, was the scratching of the branch, moved by the blowing wind. 

The lonely house looked out over the unused beach, sitting vacant and abandoned. Its windows stared gloomily into the distance, their frames splintered, many of their panes cracked or broken. Window shutters hung from rusted nails, many no longer attached, fallen to the ground below. Its siding hung sagging and warped from years of disrepair and neglect. The front door hung ajar, swinging back and forth in the wind, almost as if breathing a hollow breath.

The weed-choked gravel of the driveway crunched as a car pulled into the abandoned property, its first visitor in years. For nearly ten minutes, the dark green car sat idling before going silent. It sat quietly for another ten minutes as a red-haired woman stared at the house from the driver's seat. She sat as silent as the car and the house, her hands still gripping the steering wheel. A sigh left her lips before she finally stepped from the car and slowly made her way towards the house. The trees looked down upon her, watching the visitor, their leaves fluttering and whispering in the gentle wind.

She stood in the doorway of the house, debating whether or not to enter. She placed a hand against the frame, feeling its warped, peeling wood. She steeled herself and entered the silent house. 

Her fingers brushed against the cobwebbed photos hanging on the walls of the entry hall, the hardwood floorboards creaking beneath her feet. Distant memories flowed through her mind, vivid, living as if they had been made only yesterday. Her eyes swept over family photos from holidays, graduations, and birthday parties long past. She paused at a particular photo, removing it from the nail it hung on. Her fingers both lovingly and sadly brushed the dust away, revealing the happy couple underneath. 

The woman wore a beautiful red dress, her hair done up in a braided bun. A golden necklace adorned with a dark blue gem hung around her neck. The man standing beside her wore a simple tuxedo, his hair slicked back. A bushy mustache nearly hid the smile on his lips. Both seemed happy, clearly in love. A surge of emotions ran through her as she stared at the couple, wishing for the ability to speak to them one last time. 

She continued her walk, photo in hand, emerging into a faded living room. The furniture was covered in dust-covered sheets, the carpets moth-eaten and covered in rodent droppings. She looked over the room, the sounds of countless Christmases and birthdays ringing in her ears. Laughter and giggles floated in the air. The smell of burning wood filled her nose from the fireplace, now sitting cold. 

More photos sat on the mantle, covered in grime. These were of past relatives. Grandmothers and grandfathers, aunts and uncles, cousins, and one of her late brother.  Her eyes paused on his picture, her fingers reaching to brush against it before pulling away. He would still be here, if it weren’t for the sickness, the sickness that took him from her and her family, there in that very house. On the verge of crying, she exited the room, leaving the memories behind. 

The kitchen was next to be visited. The old stove sat against the wall, cold and lifeless. She had spent many hours here with her mother, baking cookies and all sorts of sweets. It was one of her fondest memories. Her mother had been the one to first teach her to bake, teaching her recipes that had been handed down from mother to daughter for generations. Now the kitchen sat empty and unused. No giggles, no laughter, no clatter of cookie trays, or the squeak of the oven door. Just the wind whistling through the broken windows and the rustle of leaves blowing across the floor. 

As she walked back to the front of the house, she stopped in front of a closed door. She placed a hand against the peeling paint of the door, her hand shaking. Tears threatened to seep through her closed eyes. She took hold of the rusted doorknob, opened the door, and walked into the familiar room. 

Posters of scientists and inventors littered the walls, many torn and faded beyond recognition. Trophies littered the desk, won from many science fairs and competitions. Above the head of the bed, in a glass case, there was a handmade ribbon, made by a young girl for her older brother. 

Her eyes welled with tears as she looked around the room, remembering her beloved brother who was taken from her far too soon. Unable to stand any longer, she sat on the bed, the springs of the old mattress creaking underneath her. She held the handmade ribbon close, remembering the day she gave it to him. It was the same day the sickness took him, the same day she lost a piece of herself. 

She rubbed the tears from her eyes before standing, wanting to leave the painful memories behind. Ever since her family moved that fateful week, she had avoided this house, not wanting anything to do with it. Her brother had gotten sick in this house and died in this house. In her mind, the house had taken her brother from her and her family. As much as she wanted to leave and block out the memory, she had to come to terms with what had happened.  

A sudden gust of wind swept through the house, blowing open the back door. It creaked loudly, banging against the house, like the shutters against the windows. She followed the sound, setting both the photo of her parents and the ribbon down by the doorframe. The woman exited the house, starting down the old path that led to the beach. 

Having no one to cut them back, weeds grew wildly along the path, partially obscuring the worn stones. Having walked this path many times in the past, it was easy for her to remember the way. Upon reaching the beach, she looked over the waves and the sand, hearing wisps of laughter that filled the wind. Countless days of playing in the water and building sandcastles passed before her eyes. This was her favorite spot in the whole world. At least, it used to be.  

The red-haired woman knelt down and ran her fingers through the sand, her fingers brushing against an old shovel. It was hers, from when she was a child. She smiled at the memory of her days on the beach, pretending she was a pirate, hiding her treasure from bandits that wanted to steal it.  The salty wind blew through her hair, nearly chilling her as the sun began to set below the horizon. She stood, brushed the sand from her knees, and returned to the house. 

One last walk was made through the abandoned property, recounting countless memories of her with her family. The photo and the ribbon were left by the backdoor, both staring towards the beach. She returned to her car, a single tear running down her cheek as she drove away from her childhood home.

If a picture is worth a thousand words, then an abandoned house is worth countless more. Once it stood filled with laughter, family dinners, movie nights, slumber parties, and childhood fantasies. Now it sat quiet, dead, sad, and vacant. It sat a remnant of its former self. There was no one to love it, no one to play in its rooms, No one to tend to the disrepair caused by time and age. 

There was no one to tend to the tall grass of its abandoned lawns and pathways, to clean the leaf choked gutters and sagging roof of the garage. There was no one to make it a home. Since the moment she and her family had left, the house had nothing but the memories and sounds of its former life. Now… there was nothing. It was nothing. It was nothing but a silent house, sitting beside the sea, waiting till the day another family would give it life.