He was just looking for a place. A place to put his hat, as they say. A place to kick off the old shoes for a while. Just for the winter. Didn’t have to be long. He just needed the quiet. The alone time. A break.
So they pointed him up the road, those who had been in that town a long time. Up to the end of the road, they said with a smile that fell as soon as he turned his back. But he never looked back, he just picked up his bag and followed that old dirt road to its end.
He hadn’t known how long he would have to walk. Sweat pilled on his brow and in his boots. September had never been this hot. Some of the trees had lost their leaves, but they lay crisp on the ground, burned by the sun. He wiped his head with the rag from his pocket, took off his shirt and shoved it in his bag, and kept on going, thinking of memories he’d rather not.
He shook his head of them. The gravel turned to grass. But he trusted those town folk and kept on going.
Kept going until the house saw him; saw him and his unshaven face, his dirty jeans, his clear hazel eyes looking for home. It saw his bag half open, tumbling out with clothes and food and a beer or two. He was planning to bring the rest along with a friend’s truck next week. But he couldn’t have stayed where he was any longer. Not one second.
He shook his head again, and finally saw the house. A little charcoal house with red shutters and red flower boxes all around the windows. Or at least, they had been red, once, to an old painter’s eye. Now they were bleached and grey with barely a hint of red left. But he liked the look. Liked that the roof was covered in moss. Liked the little half-tilted woodshed. Liked the overgrown garden and dark-paned glass set in the front door. And it was quiet. Not even the birds sang. As if the wind had forgotten the place completely; though he did hear the trickle of a creek nearby.
He followed the sound of it through the long grass all around the house, leaving a trail behind him. But before he could see the creek, the ground began to soften. Cattails cropped up around him and the stink began of a marsh not too far off. He held his hand to his nose and turned around. His boots had seen enough for one day. He just wanted to take them off.
As he traipsed back to the house, he wondered where the owners were. The tracks up to the place hadn’t seen action all summer. And no one had said anything about people, as if the place was just his for the taking. He scratched his dark hair and looked back down the hill, where he knew the little town hid amongst the trees. At least no one would bother him here. No one from his old life would find him here, either.
He shrugged and turned to go inside. Yet with every step he took toward the house, his throat became drier and drier. It became hard to swallow, as if something was caught in his throat. He coughed, reaching for his water bottle. The house spun in front of him, hazy in the great heat. He gulped the last drops like a fish out of water, feeling his legs wobble beneath him. As he reached for the doorknob, his skin began to crawl, as if every inch of him was trying to move backward, away from the place.
But he’d come this far, and was sure this was all just the heat. So he stepped inside and felt the cold, clammy air as a welcome.
This story is currently a work in progress.
Part 2 will be linked here when it is written. If you can’t wait and need another creepy story to read, try reading Lita by this author!
Jessica Barratt 