The House

The House

The house had been there for as long as anyone could remember. No one had lived in it for just as long. It wasn’t for any sort of superstition. It just wasn’t in high demand, that was all. At least, that’s the people living in the village below it told themselves. The house was on top of a hill overlooking the town. It looked normal enough, not like the haunted Victorian mansions from the movies. It was tall, sure enough, and somewhat unsettling in its appearance, like it might fall over at any time. But even that wasn’t because of the way it was structured. It just had that feeling about it, like it was more fragile than it looked. It had far more windows than a house should, practically twenty windows on each side. The roof was heavily slanted, and tiled with great care. A porch ran all about its base, made of some kind of black wood, for certainly it was not paint that covered its entire surface. The windows also seemed curiously dark, even in the daytime, as though the inside of the house sucked light from around it. Large, overgrown gardens sprawled around the grounds, surrounded by an iron, but not unfriendly, fence. Only Harold Feldspar, the village’s oldest resident, could remember anything in particular occurring at the house.
“I can tell back to one time,” he used to say. “A time that my father told me was thirty years after that old house’s building. There was some sort of funny goings-on going on up there. ‘Twas a night in April, and the clouds had just gotten done with their rainin’, when a peculiar sort sound started comin’ from up the path to that hill. It was like some sort of odd whistlin’, like the wind was decidin’ to carry a tune. Down right spooky it were, and bein’ the young lad I was, I said I was gonna foller that noise. I went up through the path, and the trees were all sort of leanin’, s’though they was intent on hearin’ that whistling noise. I almost lost my nerve when a squirrel dashed in front o’ me, but I kept on goin’. Then there was that house, standin’ like a cursed thing. I couldn’t feel no wind, but the garden’s plants was all movin’ about, as though the wind were playin’ tricks with ‘em. The house sort of moaned, and I ran. Ain’t never been back up there again after that night, but the funny thing was, before then, them windows was never dark. Only after then did they lose their lights.” Then everyone would laugh, and tell old Harold that he was drunk that night, and those stories were the biggest load of foolishness they’d ever heard. But their laughter was always a bit strained, and the smiles they wore were always slightly worried. They weren’t sure what was true and what wasn’t. Even while they jested with Harold, they respected him, because he was the only one in the village who was positive in what he thought.
Then, on the date that old Harold Feldspar told them was the same date he saw the strangeness at the house, the Arishens moved in. Into the house.
The village was abuzz with the news for weeks. That old house had been uninhabited for too long, and now it was practically sacred in its emptiness. Who were these people who would defy tradition so, who would disturb the house? The Arishens weren’t actually from the village, so they knew nothing of the rumors surrounding the house, but Mrs. Arishen, who’s name was Rachel, would constantly catch people’s eyes, but they would hurriedly look away. Rachel would try to talk to people but they would scurry away, almost as if they were frightened of her. Mr. Arishen, name of Nathaniel, almost never came down from that old house, and to a town where everyone knew everyone else’s name, this was considered to be vastly disturbing. The town knew the couple had a single daughter named Melanie, but she was tutored, so she didn’t get out much. Some of the more cynical members of the village said that she was kept inside because she was unspeakably ugly, but there were some people that claimed to have seen her, and she was as normal a girl as it was possible to be. There were disagreements on what exactly she looked like. Some said she had red hair and green eyes, and a pouting mouth. Others said her hair was fair, her eyes blue and she was always of a worried expression. Still other reports stated that her hair was short and brown, with eyes black as midnight and never without a smile. This last came from a boy of roughly twelve years of age, named Gerald. He didn’t tell anyone, but he had seen Melanie in the yard surrounding her house. She had been tending to the plants, which, though heavily overgrown, had started to look beautiful. She clearly spent a lot of time in that garden, because the weeds were practically gone already, and the flowers were beginning to bloom. She looked to be about fifteen, and always in a cheerful mood. Gerald thought she was rather pretty, and so figured that those who proclaimed her ugliness obviously hadn’t actually seen her. Gerald soon forgot about his sighting of the girl.

Melanie walked quietly through the somber halls the house. Soft brown panels lining the walls seemed to sigh as she passed, and Melanie smiled. The books she had in her hands wriggled, as if just waiting to be read. They were the same color as the walls, and bound in aging leather. Most of their pages were starting to become crusty and fragile in their bindings, and Melanie had long learned to be careful in handling them. One of the house’s many window threw a long ray of afternoon sunlight on the thin carpet in the middle of the hall. Melanie stopped for a moment at the window, gazing out through it. The forest that the covered the hill on which the house sat mostly obscured the town below, but the church’s steeple was still clear in the cloudless sky. She smiled again, caressed the window and moved on.
Her family’s small cat, Dante, leapt lightly from a small corner near the library, and began rubbing against Melanie’s legs. She bent down and scratched him behind his ears, then shooed him away. He ran down the hallway, then circled a bit and lay down in a pool of light. Melanie passed him and laughed as he stretched luxuriously in the sun. She reached the stairwell and slid her hand down the railing as she descended the stairs. The finely lacquered wood felt pleasant under her skin.
When she reached the bottom, she heard her father typing away on his typewriter. He was getting serious about his work as a writer these days, since he hadn’t published in quite a while. His office was the glassed in porch at the side of the house. Today it was well lit by the sun, and he had to close the drapes over one wall to keep from getting to hot. Melanie poked her head in the door.
“How’s the novel coming, Daddy?” she asked. Her father looked up.
“Oh, just fine, Melanie. I’m afraid it’s going to be a while before I finish it, though.” He smiled. “Don’t you worry about me. How are your studies?”
Melanie made a face. “I’ve told you, American History is so boring. Can’t I learn about something else?” Her father raised one eyebrow.
“You only have to take one year of it, and you’ve only just started. It might grow on you.”
“Like a wart,” she replied. He laughed.
“Shut the door on your way out,” he said, then went back to his rhythmic typing. Melanie walked away, and the door shut behind her.
She stepped lightly to the front door and opened her first book. The door opened and she walked outside, nose buried in the novel. She traveled to the bench in the middle of the garden and sat down, enjoying the feeling of the sun on her skin. The words on the page seemed to take a life of their own as she was enveloped by the book’s magic.
Some time later, Melanie looked up. She didn’t know how much time had gone by, but the sun was significantly lower in the sky and it was getting dark. At least one hundred pages had passed by in the book. She stood and placed the books on the bench. The house behind her creaked, and she looked back. There were candles in many of the windows, just recently lit and looking very inviting. She left the books and wandered slowly up the path until she reached the front door. It was already open. Melanie’s bedroom was on the third floor. She started for the stairs, then leaned in to check on her father. He was asleep at his desk, snoring quietly. She suppressed a giggle and walked back out. The ceiling was dark above her, and the walls seemed narrower than normal. Melanie sighed.
“At least close the door when you want to talk,” she said aloud. The door to her father’s office slowly swung shut. A candle at a window nearby went out.
“What are you so angry about?” Melanie asked to the air. A window rattled in a breeze outside. Melanie scowled.
“So I haven’t talked to you today. So what? Sometimes I like to make sure my parents aren’t suspicious. You do know it’s possible my dad’s listening. I think he heard me talking to you last night.” Another candle went out, and some dust floated down from the shadowed ceiling. The hallway grew darker still.
“Dante? What’s he got to do with this?” The stairs creaked. Melanie started up them, the carpet blanketing the sounds she made. A soft sound of feet came from the next floor up.
“Dante Come here, cat ” Melanie said quietly. The little brown furball came barreling down the stairs and leapt into Melanie’s arms.
“What’s up with you?” she asked, stroking his fur. His tail twitched and his eyes stared up into hers. The carpet that covered the steps shifted slightly under Melanie’s feet. She looked up the stairs. “Dante,” she breathed. “What did you find?” She forced herself to put one foot ahead of the other. Slowly, she ascended the stairs. A candle flickered into life at the top of the stairwell. It cast a warm glow on the hallway ahead. Melanie looked through the window at the top. The sun had completely gone down, shrouding the hill in velvet darkness. Melanie suddenly remembered she had left her books outside on the bench, but she didn’t turn around.
A drape closed over the window, while somewhere far down the corridor, a door slammed.
“What kind of secret?” Melanie asked. She whirled about. The old-fashioned wallpaper on the walls was starting to peel at the place she looked at. There was a crack in the wood behind it. Dante jumped from her arms and sped away down the stairs. She didn’t notice. Her hand reached out to touch to the crack. More wallpaper peeled away from her hand as it advanced. A shiver ran through her body as she made contact with the wall. The crack began widening, until it was large enough for Melanie’s hand to fit inside. She took a deep breath and reached into the dark hole. She felt a slip of paper, hard and patchy with age, and pulled it out. She unfolded it. Thin, spidery handwriting was strewn all over it, crammed in so that it was almost illegible. The light was dim, so Melanie took it back to her room and began to read.

The next morning rose grey and misty, though the sun was shining clearly overhead. Melanie slept until ten o’clock, though the drapes were pulled back and the sun was on her face. Finally, when Dante leapt onto her stomach, she woke up.
Everything around her seemed changed. Her room was just as it always had been, but something was different. Hadn’t those drapes been closed last night? There was no breeze, but the flowers in the vase that her father had picked for her were gently moving. How did Dante get in? The door was closed and her parents always slept later than her.
“What kind of game are you playing?” she asked. One of the drape strings slid free and the curtain covered half the window. Melanie grimaced.
“You’re talking so loud,” she said irritably. She rose from her bed, still in her nightgown. Dante sprang to the carpet and started to paw at the door. It opened and he ran out. The door closed behind him. Melanie rolled her eyes.
“Oh sure, do him a favor.” She walked to her dresser, and the drawers opened. She rummaged through it in search of something to wear. “What’s with your sudden carelessness? You’re usually really careful.” She pulled out a blue t-shirt and some jeans, then went to the bathroom to brush her teeth and change. The mirror in the bathroom opened casually revealing the first-aid kit behind it.
“Of course I read it. Didn’t tell me much more than I already knew.” She paused thoughtfully. “Except that part about the separateness. I kind of assumed you were one thing, not everything working together.” Melanie wandered out into her room again and toward the door to the hall. As she reached for the door handle, it turned and the door slid open. She rolled her eyes.
“All right, thank you,” she said sarcastically as it closed behind her once again. The stairs outside her door seemed closer than normal, and somehow steeper. Melanie almost tripped and fell as she descended them, but she managed to catch the railing. It was very smooth, and felt rather alien to the touch. She called out when she reached the bottom.
“Dad? Mom? Are you guys up yet?” No answer came back. Melanie turned on the chandelier light by the hallway at the stairs’ base. A door creaked open somewhere nearby. Melanie turned.
“Are my parents still asleep?” she asked. No answer. Melanie crept forward to the front door. It was tall, why would anyone make a door that tall, it wasn’t her door... She reached for the doorknob, bronzed and round, emblazoned with swirls. She turned it, ever so slowly, and its oiled squeak seemed to come from the depths of the Earth itself. She pushed and the door slid open, revealing the front lawn.
But it wasn’t the yard she’d known for so long. Her garden had disappeared, and in its place a gnarled mass of iron had grown. It seemed as though the fence that had protected her plants had grown to become her plants. The familiar old willow tree was replaced by a stone, like a tower in its height, but still earthen, still like nature had forged it. The grass was all gone, only barren earth was there. There was a figure moving through the frightening landscape, bent with age, but for some reason, Melanie was not afraid. Any fear she’d had left her body in an instant, leaving on a sense of calm, but also of minor curiosity. The figure was moving in an odd, doddering sort of fashion, sometimes coming closer to Melanie, sometimes going farther away. Melanie sat down on the front steps of the house and just watched it, steadily getting nearer. Finally, it stopped, several feet away from Melanie. An old, creaking voice, thick with the dust of years spoke to her.
“You’re a little young to have read the note,” said the figure. Melanie could now tell it was female, a decrepit old woman.
“Excuse me?” Melanie replied. “Do you mean the parchment in the wall? I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to find it. The house told me--”
“Do you think I care what the house told you, you stupid little girl?” the woman interrupted irritably. “That old ghost’s the cause of this whole mess.”
Melanie frowned.
“Ghost?” she asked, puzzled. “The house is a ghost?”
“Good God, child, didn’t you read the God damn paper? It practically screams it ”
“It does? It just said that each part of the house is ordained to have its own consciousness and be able to communicate with those who are able to hear it. Or something like that...” Melanie began to blush. It seemed obvious that the house was haunted now, though she hadn’t thought so at the time.
“Huh Young people these days Heads full of air, I don’t know...” The old woman started sauntering away. Melanie leapt to her feet.
“But tell me what this is all about I knew the house could talk, but I still don’t know why. Can’t you tell me?”
The woman turned and looked directly at Melanie, hag-like eyes piercing her like arrows. She hobbled back to the girl, then swung up an old stick she was using as a cane and pointed it at the massive structure in front of her. Melanie turned to look.
“This old thing was put up back before the Civil War, in 1846. A man named Dogwood built it, all by himself, when he were a sprightly young ‘un, maybe twenty years old. I seem to remember he got himself killed seventeen years later in the Civil War, but he ain’t that important. What’s important is that--” She stopped suddenly and looked at Melanie oddly.
“What year is it now, girlie?” She said roughly. Melanie shook, surprised at the sudden question, then replied.
“Er, 1952, ma’am.” The woman’s eyes widened.
“Am I really that old?” she said, and started muttering to herself for several moments. She quickly recovered herself, however.
“Well, I guess that would make it 76 years ago when the Traveler came.” Melanie wasn’t sure why, but the word “Traveler” sent a chill up her spine, and mentally capitalized it immediately. It was a title, not an adjective, she knew.
“The Traveler?” Melanie asked shakily. The old crone averted her gaze and continued.
“He was a right nasty old fella. He pretended to be a veteran from the war, but he was really some kinda spook, I s’pect. He used to go around makin’ trouble for the world. Well, one April night, he met his end at his own hands. He came up to that house, normal as can be, and set about inside it, puttering around. He started laying out odd things, a dead cat, maybe, and some candles. He was tryin’ to make the house haunted with the lost souls that died in the Civil War, who prob’ly woulda killed some people, and soon enough this town’d be empty. But something went wrong, I don’t really know what, and he killed himself, if he weren’t already dead. And the house went haunted the wrong way, if you get my meaning. It weren’t really good, and it weren’t really evil. It just was there, s’all there was to it. Everything, the windows, the doors, the nails, even. They all got their souls handed to ‘em, all came alive, in a sort. And nobody went in there for eight years. Then the worlds started getting flooded with people, all sorts of ‘em, maybe every five years or so.”
Melanie broke in, confused.
“Worlds? And people? But they said nobody had ever lived in it.” The old woman stared incredulously at Melanie after the girl had spoken.
“Heavens, child, do you know nothing at all? Young people these days...” She sighed, staring up at the sky. “There are many, many worlds that people live in. They are separated by layers of time and space, but many of them are similar to each other. This world is one parallel to your own. I’m sure you notice the differences. In other worlds, this house is lived in by all sorts of different people. Most of them know of the house’s uniqueness, but I think you are the youngest yet.” Then the woman blinked. “Why did I get so sidetracked? Where was I?”
“The pieces of the house came to life,” Melanie interjected helpfully.
“Ah, yes. Well, the thing is, the world isn’t supposed to function in the way the Traveler wants it to. Now, granted, this House wasn’t exactly what he had in mind, but he created it, so universe abhors it. It’s only luck yours has survived so long. In many worlds, the universe has disposed of it, maybe a rockslide got it, maybe a storm, but eventually they all fall. Your duty is--”
Suddenly there was a loud wrenching noise, as though metal was being twisted horribly. The old woman swung about, and Melanie started to back away. The iron garden was moving, writhing as though it were alive.
“Get out of here, child! This place has rejected you! Back to your own world!” the old woman crowed. The iron plants were twisting their way towards Melanie. She took off running for the house doors. She yanked them open and rushed inside, slamming the doors shut.
Then everything was quiet. She looked around. Sunlight filtered in lazily through the wide windows. There was the sound of typing some rooms over. A door opened, just for her. Melanie ran lightly through it, and hugged the door as she went. She went throughout the entire house, touching everything, the windows, the cupboards, the doors, the carpets, until she was so tired she could only lie down happily on the large sofa in the living room. She closed her eyes and imagined sleep.

Epilogue

“You’re leaving?”
“Yes, I have to.”
“You’re the only one who knew us.”
“And you’re all the only ones who knew me.”
“Stay with us. It hasn’t been long enough.”
“It’s been seven years. That a long time for a human.”
“Not for us. We’ll be lonely forever.”
“Don’t be silly. Someone else will find you.”
“Not someone like you.”
“Everyone’s different. But now I need somewhere new.”
“You haven’t saved us. You’ve condemned us.”
“To knowing lots of people instead of few? Do you know how much I had to sacrifice to let you live?”
“We are grateful. But we could have died with you in our hearts. Others can taint images.”
“I’m sorry. I’m gone.”
Melanie walked ever so slowly down the walk to the driveway. The old car waited at the end. Melanie wished she could go running back and live with the house forever. But she’d promised. Robert waited in the car, and he beeped the horn playfully. Melanie almost managed a smile, but failed. She climbed hurriedly into the passenger door and the car started. As the reached the end of the driveway, the purest note of sound Melanie had ever heard rang out. The doorknocker on the front doors had hit one last time for her.
“We swear to miss you.”