He sat there, in that old creaking bed he always hated, in that old eerie house he always hated. That ugly light green wallpaper with dark green diamonds encasing a smaller lime green diamond that he always hated engulfed him. The wallpaper was old, peeling, damp. He could feel the moisture in the air every time he breathed.
Up in the hills there was a house. A house whose doors never remained open. An old house. The house of the Cox family, said to have lived there for hundreds of years. It was the man known as Ethan Cox who broke free of this house’s wrenched claws, he swore his sick little sister to never look back at that cursed place ever again. Yet here he was. Sitting in what used to be his bedroom. He stood up, rubbing his eyes roughly. There wasn’t much to do aside from wait, and wait, and wait for something, anything to happen. After failing to earn enough money to pay the rent of his apartment, this rusty old house was much more preferable than freezing in the streets.
As he walked toward the middle of his room and the sound of Ethan’s old shoes tapping gently against the floor filled the room, he sensed something, something wrong. He did not only sense something, he sensed someone or so he thought. He turned around, listening very carefully. The sound of fire cackling in his fire place filled his ears, yet, nothing else was to be heard. Not footsteps, no breathing. Maybe he was just paranoid, he thought to himself, maybe the sense of false hope for something greater for him being out there had turned into fear, hollow, empty and meaningless fear.
He didn’t know what time it was, surely way past four, it was time he treated himself to something more than just oatmeal. As he approached the door of his room and wrapped his hand around the doorknob, he sensed it again, that . . . presence, looming over him like a hawk, cunningly awaiting the perfect moment to strike, just sitting there, menacingly. His hand turned the doorknob. It was too late, whatever or whoever was behind this very door already knew he was in here. And then he heard it. Furious pounding, distant, slowly growing stronger and stronger, he could hear the desperation in the pounding. It was only when his head started to throb and his breath to louden when he realized, it was the beating of his very heart. He pushed the door open without blinking, tensing up his whole body, ready for whatever this presence had ready for him.
Yet, there was nothing.
No one was waiting for him in the other side of the door. It was weird. . . The sensation of something, someone watching from afar still all around him. He scanned the short hallway connecting an old bathroom with what was his sister and brother’s rooms. Nothing.
He looked behind him, scanned the room once again. Nothing.
He then thought, standing right in the middle of the doorway. If there was no one waiting for him in the other side of the door, if he was the only person in this house, what was that gut twisting feeling he sensed? Could it be that the house was haunted? No, there’s no way. Haunted houses don’t exists. They’re mere fiction. He chuckled at the idea, and gave it more thought. He passed his hand through the peeling wallpaper, its aged and rotted wood, there was no one here. Just him, and the house. The house.
Could the house have been that presence he felt earlier? Staring him down using its rusty doorknobs for eyes. Yes, he could feel it. It’s anger. It hated him. It hated that he just left it to rot. Abandoned it. A thick layer of black mold in the corner of the room told him just how long had this house suffered through neglect. This house IS haunted! He thought to himself, not haunted by its long dead inhabitants but by him! As its foundations began to sink and rats colonized its basement, the house asked itself through clenched teeth, “What did I do wrong?”
It was swallowing him. The pressure was too much to bear. Desperately Ethan ran to the fire place, chucked a burning piece of wood out of the flames and threw it directly at his bed. He sat and waited in fear, his whole body shaking and trembling, hearing the fire spread and crackle. He was bringing himself down with the house.
As the house creaked in pain, completely engulfed in flames, Ethan sat right in the middle of the room, fading in and out of reality, smoke filled his lungs and the warmth of the fire embraced him. He smiled, placed his hand on the floor, feeling the hard wood he had become so familiar with when he was a child, the same wood that made up the walls of his beloved home for one final time. He was tired of fighting, tired of waiting and hoping for things to turn around for him. He let go, putting himself and his home out of its misery, gently whispering his final words for no one else’s ears other than the house’s,
“I’m sorry.”
