The House That Wasn’t There Yesterday

I drive this road every single morning.

Same potholes. Same flickering streetlamp. Same tired old billboard with peeling paint about a funeral service. This route to my teaching job is etched in my brain like muscle memory.

Except today—

There was a house.

I slammed on the brakes so hard my coffee spilled all over my lap. It stood about 40 feet from the road, where there was only ever grass and an empty plot. An old Victorian-style house, leaning slightly like it had grown tired of standing straight. The paint was cracked, like dried skin. The windows: dark, reflective, like the house was watching me.

I stared for a full minute. I wasn’t crazy. I would’ve remembered this place. I always joked about how that land was “the loneliest piece of earth” I passed every day.

So why was there a house now?

I tried to ignore it. I really did.

But by third period, my head was buzzing. I couldn't focus. So during my lunch break, I did what I never do—I drove back. I told myself I’d snap a picture, maybe send it to someone. “Look at this weird house that popped up overnight!” Something funny. Light.

It wasn’t funny when I got there.

Because it was gone.

The plot of land was back to being just weeds and wind. Like it had been swallowed whole. Or worse, like it had never existed.

I kept checking every morning.

On the fourth day, it returned.

Same slanted roof. Same black windows. But this time, the front door was wide open.

A part of me screamed not to go closer. That part was drowned out by curiosity.

I parked my car, left the engine running, and walked towards it. Each step felt like it wasn’t mine. Like my feet belonged to someone else.

The house smelled like dust and damp wood. Everything was faded, like memories. A piano in the corner. Empty photo frames. An old clock ticking, even though the hands were stuck at 3:17.

Then I saw the photo.

On the mantel.

It was me.

Not now—younger. Maybe ten years ago, before the beard, before the lines on my forehead. Standing next to someone I didn’t recognize: a girl with black hair and pale eyes. She was holding my hand like we were a couple.

I stepped back. The floor creaked beneath me.

“Eli?”

I froze.

The voice came from upstairs.

No one knows my name here. I only moved to this town two years ago.

“Eli, it’s okay,” the voice said again, softer now. “You’re just remembering…”

I ran.

Didn’t even look back. I didn’t stop running until I reached my car, and even then, I nearly forgot to shut the door before peeling off.

That night, I didn’t sleep.

I dug through old photos. I don’t remember any girl with pale eyes. No house like that. Nothing.

Except at 3:17 a.m., I did remember something.

A different town. A girlfriend. Her name might’ve been Lila? A fire… a lost house… And after that, therapy. A decision to move and start over.

My breath caught in my chest.

What if the house wasn't new?

What if I was?

The next morning, I drove the road again.

No house.

Just fog, trees, and a yawning stretch of grass.

But now, I don’t trust what I see anymore.

Maybe some houses come and go.

Maybe some truths do, too.

Maybe some people live in homes that only show up when it’s time to remember what they forgot.