That House

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That house. Sitting in the back woods, overgrown by vines as twisted as the stories that swirl around them. Those vines, choking the remaining life out of that house. Slowly, slowly, slowly.

Wonderful marriages, agonizing deaths, mysterious disappearances in the middle of the night. Shouts of joy, and screams of fright, all occurred, with the holder of memories now in sight.

Approaching the dark, wooden, shingled house, touching the sides where the wood ran smooth from the many sweaty little hands that ran their fingers alongside this same wall on a nice day. Stepping up the stairs, the same stairs that knew every foot that had stepped upon it, whined under my weight, as they should have rotted away years ago, instead of withering away slowly to shambles.

Grabbing the cold, metal handle that was the portal from the looming darkness outside to the unknown, I stopped suddenly, as a wisp of frigid air wrapped itself around me. Shivering, staggering back from the door, I take in the monstrous house before me. The shingles that were once clean-cut and precisely placed are now rooted away in rough, jagged edges due to the newest inhabitants - termites. The tall, towering gables with wrought iron fences surrounding each small, dark window on every one. The dilapidated parapet above the door was encased in an iron fence quite similar to the ones casing the windows, however the winding tips were reminiscent to that of the vines – choking the house slowly, in a heartbreaking way. The door itself was a timeless wooden guard, keeping its memories hidden and captive. Memories of good, memories of bad, they are no more, no more, no more.

The same dainty, timeless wind ruffled through my jacket again, gently telling me it was time to leave. I felt my way backwards down the creaking stairs, watching the house as I made my way back to the car. One final look at the house – the drooping, sorrowful edges of roof that have eroded away, the tall, proud gables, the cold heartless iron and the un-aging door. To have been inside would have been what? A life? A tragedy? A world unbeknownst to man? Mysteries that shall forever remain uncertain.

The last glimpse of that house was that of the vines – those dreadful vines – growing still, continually squeezing the life out of that house, forever more.





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