The Missing House

Life is supposed to be simple. You’re born, you work, you marry, then you die. Sometimes in life, however, things go a little sideways. Suddenly, your once peaceful memories, all your hopes, and dreams, become nothing more than who you were before it happened.

I was only a little boy, but it feels like it was just yesterday. It was the hottest day of autumn, but more than perfect weather for me to explore the woods behind my family’s old house near the mountainside in Damascus, Virginia.

That’s where it happened. I came upon a house right there in the middle of the woods. Any other kid would be scared out of their wits, but my curiosity got the best of me. The leaves crunched under my feet as I made my way to the front door. Before I could even reach out for the handle it creaked open for me, inviting me in.

I can’t remember much else. Bits and pieces, maybe. Long tan hallways that seem to go on to the ends of everything. The smell of vanilla. Familiar creaks and moans of wooden floorboards. Though, sometimes I wonder if maybe it was all a figment of my childhood imagination. Maybe even something I conjured up in a dream. From the moment I left, I needed to go back. I searched and searched for years, but it was lost to me. Eventually, it became nothing more than a memory.

That was thirty years ago. Yet here I am, in the middle of the night, driving up the steepest backroads of Damascus. During what can only be the worst thunderstorm this town has ever seen. Why am I here? Well, three reasons I imagine: The fight with Gloria, a half-drunk bottle of whiskey and that damn brown paper box that showed up on my front porch a few days ago.

It all started with that box. I woke up just like any other day and dragged my tired legs to the coffee pot. I grabbed my cup and made my way outside to drink it peacefully on the porch while I watched the morning dew turn into that beautiful haze that comes with sunrise. The best way to relax before heading into my tiring job as a detective at the local police station.

The screen door groaned as I pushed it out into the cold morning, but stopped short of opening when it hit something with a thud. A box wrapped in brown paper tied together with twine. It was soaked with dew, almost as if it had been sitting there all night. I untied it carefully and unwrapped the damp paper. Inside sat a dozen black and white Polaroids. I was shocked to see so many familiar images. I felt my world begin to turn upside down. A feeling I thought would never return to me, like the overwhelming anxiety that you might drown in the flood.

I pulled around the bend in the dirt road then came to a hard stop. A pale, dead tree had fallen, blocking the road. I knew I was getting close, I couldn’t turn back now. Frustrated, I grabbed that brown paper box, opened it, and began hastily sifting through the photos. Something in there had to give me a clue.

My heart nearly stopped when I saw it. A photo of that same tree, a mirror image of what was in front of me. A sudden realization rushed over me, the reason the photos had all seemed so familiar. They were leading me to the house.

All these years I spent obsessing over what could have happened there. Trying to forget, or trying to remember, I don’t know anymore. Someone, or something, was leading me back. Panicked, I reached for a half-empty whiskey bottle that had made a temporary home on the floorboard of my car. I could feel my nerves taking over my mind. . .that drowning feeling again. I shoved the photos into my pockets and took a deep, shaky breath.

Water-soaked through my shoes the moment I stepped into the darkness, away from the safety of my old hatchback. I flicked on my flashlight and made my way around the fallen tree. The road narrowed as I walked until suddenly there were only woods around me. I kept looking at the photos to make my way through the woods; a tree stump here, a large rock there. Each photo led me closer. Finally, I looked at the last one. An image of an old house with its door open.

I looked up and there it was. I swear it hadn’t been there when I was walking before. Nevertheless, it was here in front of me, the porch light on and the door open, inviting me in once again. The porch step creaked softly like a welcome sigh, almost as if it were happy to see me. I peered through the door, into the dark corridor that had haunted me all these years. With yet another sputtered breath, I closed my eyes and stepped into the doorway.

The familiar smell smacked me in the face. I opened my eyes and studied the room. Tan carpets lined the floors. Remarkably, the house seemed clean and well kept. I began to wonder if I was trespassing in someone else's home. It was so warm and inviting, I almost felt the need to kick off my shoes and hang my coat.

Thunder clapped outside and startled me back to reality. I ventured further inside and stepped slowly down a long hallway. Several white doors with brass handles littered either side. Next to them were framed photos, with the same image in each one. I pushed forward, fighting the urge to see what was behind those mysterious doors.

I was too distracted to notice something was on the floor until I nearly kicked it across the hall. I looked down to see a metal gas canister. The smell of gasoline filled the air. Suddenly, everything became so clear to me, the reason I had been drawn back here. The house was begging me to put it out of its misery. Why? I didn’t know, but I couldn’t complain. Maybe if I did just burn this place to the ground this haunting feeling it has left me with would go away forever.

A door at the end of the hallway creaked open. I looked up hesitantly. A pale hand with a silver wedding band was gripping the door, followed by a familiar face. My wife, Gloria, but how? I tried to speak her name, but it caught in my throat. She said nothing, just stood there, staring at me. The longer I looked at her the more I noticed how different she looked. Her face was . . . wrong. My heart started racing. The woman who was not Gloria seemed to notice this, and a twisted grin began to creep up her face. Not a woman either, I concluded as I watched her face twist and change.

I grabbed the gas canister and frantically poured its remnants back down the hallway, fumbling backward as I watched the thing start to take steps towards me. In my haste, I noticed the pictures on the walls had morphed into something else, and each door was opened just a crack. I turned to run back toward the front door but was met with a wall. The house had morphed and changed like it was trying to trap me here. A cackle filled the hall and I dared to look at where it had come from. Gloria— no— that thing, was standing taller than any normal human now. It looked like her skin had been stretched paper-thin. The smile on her face was turned to her ears. I searched my pockets for my matchbook. I struck one and closed my eyes, the image of my Gloria, the real Gloria, flooded my mind. I thought of her as I threw the match.

A breeze blew through my hair. Carried with it was the smell of dead leaves, mixed with the faintest scent of vanilla. A familiar voice called my name and my eyes snapped open. It was daytime now and there was no evidence it had ever been raining. I gasped, but it felt like the first real breath I had taken in a long time. Not only was the house gone, but it was also like it was never there. That’s when I knew, right now, on the hottest day of autumn, it would never be back again.