A Letter to the New Homeowner

Sleepless nights have kept you drained, searching and searching for someone you know is there, but cannot find. Every creak is a possible footstep from some ruthless home intruder. Yet, even when you doubt yourself you have those thoughts scratching at the back of your mind. Every night I see you check the entrances three times and three times exactly, every lock on every door and every window. Ironically, your safety is your greatest concern in this wonderfully comforting house. Every night you feel the prying of eyes during your most intimate moments. You hear whispers and groans you can’t identify, but you swear they are there. I will tell you everything.

For as long as I can remember I have always had some fear of being away from home. When I was young I would shy away from sleepovers with friends. When I did attend I would more often than not call my parents to drive me home late in the night while everyone was soundly asleep. School became increasingly difficult, as I could not stand the staring eyes of everyone as I returned from the prolonged absences. This continued well into adulthood, and slowly inched its way backward as I limited myself to a self imposed imprisonment. This house, claustrophobic as it was, was my safety. I knew every crack and crevice, every chipped flake of paint hanging from the wall. Everything I eventually knew would be inside this house. The windows too, would be sealed shut and covered with blackened curtains. The sight of the sky and the overbearing miniscule nature of myself and life in general was just too much to bear. Days would become weeks, months and so on. I did not care, as I was home and I was safe. Wellness checks from the local authorities would shake my door as I too shook in agony from the panic I felt. Screams through the door would assure them that I was at the very least alive. Food itself became scarce, and I too would become scarce. Mirrors in my house would show the sharp reflection of my skeletal structure, barely hidden under my tattered skin. My sunken cheeks would insult me until I destroyed every mirror in the house.

The lights would become dark, but I did not mind. I knew this house all too well as to traverse it in the blackness of night. Eventually the water would go as well, but I planned for this, as I filled every sink, every tub, every cup, and every bowl. When that would disappear, the toilet too would suffice. The last of my food would slowly disappear, even after the loving sacrifice of my dog Hal, the last remaining tie to my old and comparatively sociable life. In desperation I scattered the remains of crumbs, sauces and a food so rotten even I dared not to eat it. Eventually the rats came, and I would be able to use my traps to catch them. Each time I heard a snap, my mouth would water as I made my way to the sound.

Even in my isolation I couldn’t escape the screeching sound of Humanity. I couldn’t help but listen, even when I tried to shut it all out, I would hear children talk outside my window about the crazy man who lived in this house. Eventually, the Rats and water would leave me, but I knew I was safe because I was home. Now I could do nothing but sit in the corner. I would drag my hand across the beautiful walls of my house, and my skin would peel and stick, smearing blood across its smooth surface. I had always wanted to paint the walls in this room, and I would settle for the reddish-brown of dried blood. As I sat alone and felt the safety of my house around me, even my back would fuse to the wall, and I would lose all function 0f movement. Slowly and slowly I would sink into the house, my chest would collapse and my ribs would snap inward. I myself was becoming the final addition to this beautiful safe home of mine. So now you see, I am not living in your attic, I am not living beneath your floorboards or in your walls. I am your walls, I am this house.