The House That Haunts My Mind
The dark thoughts in your nightmares need to live somewhere, too. And for me, it‘s that old farmhouse on Main Street.
I walked up Main Street on that summer day. My friend Alex had invited me over. Even in the sunshine, the house looked ominous. The house had three storeys with a gable roof. Two rows of dark squares, crowned with a single, gaunt-looking chapel window at the top. Even though it was painted all in white, the ravages of time were slowly peeling away the layers, revealing its darker skin underneath.
I walked up the thick wooden steps and onto the porch. Instead of an inviting wooden railing, it was surrounded by thick half-walls of brick. The porch was bare. No chairs or tables to enjoy the sunshine. Instead, some withered old leaves chased each other in the corners in the light breeze.
I knocked on the door.
Soon after, Alex appeared from the dark square of the doorframe and gestured for me to come in. When I entered the house, the outside light was quickly gobbled up by the gloom. It had a smell of age — thick with days gone by and the memories that went with it. Like the air of the present never entirely made it inside.
And I was breathing it in.
