I had always dreaded the idea of going back to the disgusting house I was raised in. You couldn’t find that house if you were looking for it on a map. It was literally located in the middle of Oregon; in some small town know by the community of 500 people as Greenville. The house was located about 13 miles from the town, on a dirt road and on top of a hill. I had lived in that house till I was fifteen years old and one day I got the courage to run away to California and start my real life. I had never seen myself going back to this dump if my life depended on it, but that all changed three days ago when I received a letter in the mail from my now dead mother. Although I should be somewhat sad she died, I am honestly relieved that women was related to the devil. I remember sitting down on the sofa as I opened the envelope, which read:
“To my dearest daughter, I hope this letter makes it to you, as I looked for every possible Samantha Black online, and this is what I found….”
I hated my name Samantha, It just sounded like a stupid name to me, that’s what I tell everyone around me my name is Sam. The letter continues:
“As you now may know, I received a sickness from our house, in which I was inhaling to much mold. I had always known it was a problem; I just could never get myself to leave the place. I just couldn’t, someone or something was holding me to it…”
Okay, this woman had gone mad, what on earth did she mean by saying that someone or something was holding her to the house. Oh well I don’t care what she has to say or think, she doesn’t matter to me. As I continue to read her terribly written letter I get to the bottom in which she wrote:
“In my will I have given you the house. The house is now yours. This means the house and everything inside it is yours… Much love, your mother.”
What was she thinking! I don’t want that piece of junk! There is no possible way I am every going back to that place. Yet three days later here I am, plane ride and two hour cab fair back to the dump. I thank the cab man as he looks concerned for my state of mind as I step out of the car and look up to the ugliest white house in all of history. Before I can even glance down to my phone to see I have any messages, the cab driver peels out and leaves a big wind of dust in his tracks.
I have to walk around to the back of the house to get inside, for the front door had been nailed shut by a big piece of wood. The glass in the windows has all fallen out, and the kitchen light hardly works except for a small flicker here and there. The only reason to come back to this place was to meet with an agent and try to sell the house as soon as possible. But considering the condition it is in, I hardly doubt anyone let alone anything will buy it.
As I make somewhat of a bed for myself, I begin to recall faint memories of being in this house that I tried to forget my entire life. The time my father left, the times my mother would beat me when she was drunk. I could feel these dark and cold memories as if they had happened yesterday. How could my parents do that to me? Did they even love me? I wondered that questions for years, and came to the consensus that they didn’t love me, which was fine with me.
My eyes begin to close as I begin to drift off to a deep sleep. Sometime later in the night I jolt up to a loud bang that sounds as if it came from the kitchen. My imagination begins to go crazy. What if someone is in the house? What if there was a homeless person living here? I grab my phone in one hand, with my apartment keys in the others as a make shift weapon. I began to look around the corner to the kitchen when I hear what sounds like someone moving pots and pans around. I begin to count in my head “One……..Two…… Two and a half….. Three!” I jump around the corner and screamed as I locked eyes with……