The House

The house was haunted. It was a stately affair, the kind of mansion that had fallen into disrepair after its family decided to leave. On sunny days, one could hardly think that the dead would haunt the place. But on darker nights, there was something strange about it, perhaps even the reason why the family decided to move in the first place. There was no way to truly pin it down, just a shifting in the air and the way the ground seemed to swallow every whisper. The boy wished he could go back in time to when things were kinder, but of course, time always went forward, never backwards. There was no other choice but to go forward (she used to say that there was always another way.)

The bare trees in the front yard trembled a little bit, a shiver of anticipation or dread as he approached for the last time. The front door was partially rotted, the door knob rusted. He supposed that was partially his fault; he hadn’t been taking care of the old building as well as he should. (She would disapprove of that.)

He stepped through the door, not bothering to open it. It had been a long time since he bothered with such things, as there was never any point. The door creaked a little bit as he passed through it, the solid wood registering that something was passing through the very barrier that was built to keep things out (or in, like her. She had always wanted to leave, to find that adventure she always read about in her stories.)

The front entryway was rotted, a musty sort of decay that settled deep in your bones and caused the sort of despair after everything is over and all has been done. The cadaver of joy lay here, the final place that the last living member of the previous owners saw of their beloved home before fleeing. The boy paused, wondering at this turn of phrase. It was quite unlike him to be philosophical (that had always been her specialty.)

The boy paused in some sort of living room or sitting room. The family had used it for both purposes, a hybrid of both formal and informal.It once had an atmosphere that could be described as ‘homey’, but now, among the rot and dust, the only way to see the room was with pity. Maybe there had once been a family here, but that was long gone. (She would be sad. This house had been her joy, and she loved the place with the kind of fierce love that a tigress has. Of course, that love wasn’t enough to keep her from her longed for adventure.)

The boy wasn’t sure what he was looking for. There was certainly nothing of value left among what used to be his home, and any nostalgia had long been doused. (She had sent him a letter the other day. She had finally decided to sell the place, and the new residents were to come today. What happened to that tiger love that once lit her from inside out?)

The building itself was just fine. The boy was willing to admit that most of the decay had come from him, not from time. The foundations were still strong, and the walls would last for a long time. The broken wood and stone could easily be cleared away or replaced, and the dust could be swept away. The new family that would come here would be quite pleased with their new lodgings, in fact, with their bodies that still pumped blood and eyes that couldn’t see the history of this place. (She had asked him to leave the house, telling him that the newcomers did not want to believe in ghosts, much less be kind to them.)

The boy did not want to leave. This was his home. A terrible one, filled with the memory of pain and love and joy and sorrow, but that was what a home was. Besides, could the new family really be trusted to love this home, to care for it like he did? (Like she had?)

Also, there was the matter of his gravesite. HIs bones were still there, and one’s body is a precious thing indeed. It would be foolish to leave himself behind, even a little bit, and the house provided a convenient way to stay away from the chill outside while he guarded his grave. (When she told him that she was planning to cremate him so that his remains would be portable, he slammed the door so loudly a crack formed in the plaster.)

A car pulled up in the driveway. A door slammed shut, and he could hear voices. He could leave now, leave this place to the new family to become a new home. He could watch his bones from the graveyard like all the other ghosts of this town. He didn’t have to stay here in some vain attempt to preserve what was already lost. (When she left, she took the last illusion of family with her. What really was the point of staying here? A sense of duty? He could leave, too. What point was there really in watching a graveyard already occupied by cautious ghosts?)

He could hear the mother’s voice, high-pitched and ringing with the authority of someone used to holding together what little she had, scrapping out a living. He could hear a father, tired but firm, determined to find a way to survive in that strange world of money and life. He could hear a girl’s voice, low and solemn like a plant suddenly uprooted from home. (Did she sound like that too, when she left here? Were her answers also one word, quiet and sad and missing home? Did she miss him?)

The memory hovered uncertainly. He was not a malicious sort of being, unlike distant relatives who had come back, angry at their fate and wanting a life that had been stolen from them. He had come back only because he could, only because he was following an uncle’s footsteps back into the realm of the living. He had always been curious, and the haze that followed his death couldn’t rip that from him without damaging a crucial part of his soul (curiosity kills the cat, she had warned him. Well satisfaction and that same determination to find answers had brought him back.)

The front door creaked open. Go now, he warned himself. Go now and find the life that was denied to you. Travel the world, see the plains and the oceans and the skies and the mountains. So what if his bones were uncovered? At least he would leave the mortal realm knowing that he had seen all he could see. Why wait in a house that was already moving on? (She had moved on, had asked him to follow. He had been too scared then.)

Perhaps he should stop thinking of her. She had left now, left him behind because he wasn’t enough for that daring that always wanted to see the horizon. He didn’t fault her, of course. He had only thought that he would be with her. Maybe he could still be with her. Instead of holding her back, the boy could chase her down and see her horizon that she always had longed for. 

As he left, he thought he heard a little boy whisper something that made the girl laugh. The ghost hoped that the children would find the tree in the backyard that always kept its leaves long after winter had come, that they would find the little cubby hole in the basement with his little treasures, that they would find a home in this old, tired building.

The floor creaked as the first living person in years stepped into the home. The house shuddered as the memory stepped out of it for the first time in years, making way for the new.