The House
685 Words
The inside of the house smelled like lavender and something older, maybe cedarwood, maybe time itself. Lena stepped through the doorway and paused, letting the silence wrap around her like a heavy coat.
Aunt Claire had tried to freshen things up. The walls were newly painted, soft grey with white trim. A vase of sunflowers sat on the entry table. But it wasn’t enough to hide the bones of the house, the uneven floors, the groaning pipes, the way every footstep echoed just a little too long.
“This will be your room,” Claire said, leading her up the stairs.
Second door on the right. Pale yellow walls. A twin bed with a faded quilt. A bookshelf with a few forgotten paperbacks. Lena stepped inside slowly, like the room might reject her.
The last time she was here, she and Emily were nine years old. They had shared this room during summer break. Made up stories under the covers. Played hide-and-seek in the attic. Tried to summon ghosts with flashlights and whispered chants they barely understood.
She looked at the wallpaper. The same smiley face was still faintly visible in the corner, drawn in crayon, then scrubbed halfway off. Emily had done that. Right before the fair. Right before everything.
Lena set her suitcase on the bed and opened it with a soft sigh.
“I put fresh sheets on the bed. Towels are in the bathroom. Take your time unpacking — I’m making tea,” Claire said gently, before heading downstairs.
Alone again, Lena wandered over to the window. It overlooked the backyard, overgrown now, the grass waist-high in places, the swing set barely visible beneath creeping ivy. Somewhere beyond that, at the edge of the woods, was the place where she and Emily had once buried a time capsule. She wondered if it was still there.
A sudden chill swept through the room.
Goosebumps rose on her arms. She rubbed them instinctively, then turned away from the window.
She didn’t believe in ghosts. Not really.
But sometimes, she wished she did. At least then there’d be a reason for how heavy this place felt. For how much Ridgewood felt like it was holding its breath.
Downstairs, Aunt Claire was pouring tea into mismatched mugs. Lena sat at the kitchen table, fingers curled tightly around the ceramic.
“How are you really?” Claire asked, watching her.
Lena gave a practiced shrug. “It’s just...weird being back.”
Claire nodded, her mouth a tight line. “You don’t have to talk about anything until you’re ready. But if you ever are...I’m here.”
There was kindness in her voice. Warmth. But also distance. Like she knew better than to prod old wounds. Like maybe she had a few of her own.
Lena nodded. “Thanks.”
The tea was chamomile. Soft, floral, calming. She didn’t want calm. She wanted answers.
That night, after Claire went to bed, Lena wandered through the dark hallway with bare feet, the wooden floor creaking beneath her.
She stopped at the attic door.
It was slightly ajar.
She hadn’t touched it.
A slow, familiar unease crawled up her spine as she placed her hand on the knob. It felt colder than it should’ve.
She pushed it open.
The stairs groaned with every step as she ascended into the attic. It smelled like dust and old stories. Moonlight spilled through the narrow window, illuminating the rows of boxes and forgotten furniture.
In the far corner sat a trunk she recognized instantly.
She knelt beside it, her hands shaking slightly as she flipped the latch.
Inside, a stack of old notebooks, drawings and photographs, all things she and Emily had stuffed inside over the years. Summer scavenger hunts. Lists of “Top Ten Scariest Places in Ridgewood.” Even a photo booth strip of the two of them making silly faces.
Her breath caught in her throat.
She held one of the notebooks to her chest and closed her eyes.
The past wasn’t buried.
It was right here, waiting for her.
And she was finally ready to dig it up.
- Writer
