The House

A worn, overgrown house.

Through the bushes he saw a worn little house, overgrown, almost covered by vegetation.

It was getting dark, soon it would be too dark to see. He could hear thunder. It was going to rain. He walked up the path towards the door, overgrown with bushes, spines and thistles. Rain started falling.

He entered the house. It was warm inside, and it smelled fresh, clean. It looked kept.

Hello? He tried, but there was no answer.

He started walking down the hallway. It seemed to go through the whole house, with doors on each side. He could hear the clock on the wall ticking, the pendulum was going from side to side.

Hello! He knew he was trespassing, but another thunder strike reminded him he needed shelter. There was no answer. He kept walking.

The first room was a kitchen. Something was cooking on the stove, the fire was burning underneath. It smelled delicious. He hadn’t eaten all day.

He kept walking. Looked into the livingroom. The fire was burning vividly in the fireplace. There were comfortable looking furniture, and art on the walls.

The next room was a bedroom. A big bed, with cushions and clean sheets, undone. A bra was hanging on the back of the chair, and a pair of panties on the floor. He was doing wring. He shouldn’t be there. He looked at the wall at the end of the hall. He needed to go closer, it couldn’t be. But it was.

It was him.

The room was changing. A sound. A baby screaming. He turned around. There were spiderweb on the walls. The tapestry was falling off. Big holes in the dirty rug on the floor. He started walking fast towards the exit. The hall seemed to become longer as he walked.

He tried to run, but his feet was stuck to the floor.

He sunk down. A velvet, a textile of liquid covered him. Covered his body. His heart. The smell of smoke. Of ashtrays and yesterday’s drunkenness. The baby. The God damned baby kept screaming. Louder. And louder. Hands grabbing him, delicate hands, holding him down, pulling him. He was trapped. Trapped forever. Never to roam again.

….

He was sitting on a chair by the window. A woman was standing in front of a mirror, holding a baby in her arms. A bra was hanging on the chair. She looked at him.

Sshhh….  He’s asleep.

He looked out of the window. It was the same house, but there was a garden outside, well kept.

Memories slowly came back. Or were they created? He wasn’t sure. Soon they took over.

He was home.

36 Comments

  1. Becoming a father for the first time can be extremely stressful. Previously, a man has had pretty much exclusive attention from his wife, but after the baby is born, all that changes and it requires a tremendous developmental shift from him to accept that he must be much more giving and much less taking.

    Oh, the walking into a creepy empty place expecting danger at every turn reminded me of the latest “horror” tale I wrote for my nine-year-old grandson. I tried to keep the tension up as much as I could and not let him off the hook until the very end of the story. Oh, the bonus is that it has an evil clown and he had to solve real riddles to escape: Show Me The Way To Go Home.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. The baby turned its head, a monster with horns, red eyes and a mischievous smile. A dribble of milk ran down the side. “You want some?” he asked, ashing a cigarette on his scaly palm. The man turned around and shrieked, awaking from his dream within a dream…

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Wow! I might consider skipping the whole relationship and having kids thing after reading this.
    Oops, too late. Nine kids later, I can’t say similar dreams haven’t happened. As James mentioned, the grandkids are much less stress. They go home.

    Liked by 1 person

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s