The House I Grew Up
The old worn house stood alone in the middle of a dense forest not too far from town. It was the sublime picturesque painting straight out of a gothic horror novel. It was the only thing that Orion loved about the house. The memories that coursed behind the walls like blood had turned sour over the years that it was allowed to curdled like rotten milk. Orion took a sharp breath that felt like daggers piercing her chest. If ghosts did linger in the world of the living, they took the form of memories and nostalgia that held tightly to a home until it became nothing more than walls and a roof to keep you from the cold and rain. There was a tug at Orion's heart that begged for her to enter and reclaim those memories, both good and bad—but she hesitated on the border of the property, a manilla envelope in hand. The soft warmth of another's hand grasped her own, followed by a gentle voice,
