Into a Dead House

Cutting across a damp stretch of lawn brought the boy to the side door far sooner than he would have liked. The knob was white ceramic but yellowed and cracked with time. The trees swaying in the wind behind him seemed to laugh at his folly, to enter this house. He glanced at his notebook for reassurance and turned the knob.
The door swung open, and a hundred years of memories rushed out with a dusty breeze. No one could live here. No one could be left. No one should remain. Yet, she was here, calling to him, compelling him to come to the house.
“I don’t want to come in,” he said defiantly, but his sneakered feet still stepped over the threshold. They knew the way, even if the boy didn’t want to admit he did as well. Weeks and months of scribbles in his notebook, laid down in a half sleeping trance, told the way, showed the place, urged the journey to her.
He must find her. Granted, he didn’t know who she was. And why was he looking for a girl. He still wasn’t convinced girls didn’t have cooties.

View this story's 2 comments.