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“Wait a minute,” I told him. “Let’s just be sure this is, uh, Grandma’s house.”
A glance at the mailbox at the end of the sidewalk convinced me, however. It was clearly marked as #1 Crooked Lane. Apparently this was the house I’d inherited.
I walked up the sidewalk and as I did, I had the strongest feeling of déjà vu I’d ever experienced in my life. People talk about remembering past life experiences—that was what it felt like. I could almost see my younger self running around the front lawn—jumping into piles of leaves in Fall…stomping in puddles during Summer…building a snowman in the Winter…picking flowers in the Spring… So many memories popping around my head like flashbulbs going off. It was hard to keep track of them all.
There was no doubt about it—I knew this house. The question was—did it know me?
“Well, only one way to find out,” I told Sebastian.
I walked up to the front door, which was painted a dark green that somehow worked with the periwinkle blue clapboard and the white siding. I looked for a keyhole at first, since I still had the heavy iron key in one hand. But I couldn’t find anyplace to put it.
At last, I gave up and just put my hand on the outside of the door. Was it my imagination or did it vibrate slightly at my touch? I tried the knob, but it wouldn’t open—it wouldn’t even turn. How was I supposed to get in?
“Talk to him.”
The voice was faint—a barely-there whisper in my ear. It might have been another Autumn breeze but somehow I didn’t think it was.
“What?” I looked around, wondering what was going on.
“Introduce yourself,” the tiny voice suggested.
Was I going crazy? Imagining things? Or had I been wrong before and I really was dreaming?
Whichever it was, I decided there was no harm in following the voice’s suggestion. After all, what did I have to lose?
“Er, hello, uh Morris?” I said, feeling silly to be addressing a house like it was a person. “I’m Sarah—the granddaughter of Elvira? I have her will right here,” I added, waving the crumpled document, which I was still hanging onto. “It says I, er, own you now.”
That sounded wrong, though—rude, I thought. Sebastian seemed to agree because he gave me the side-eye and made a hissing sound.
“Er, not that I’m trying to say I’m your owner or anything,” I backtracked, trying to make amends. “But I’d be grateful if I could stay here for a while. I don’t know where I am and the door to my apartment disappeared. Also, I’m going to lose the apartment anyway since my rent just doubled and I lost my main job. I can’t?—”
Before I could finish the sentence, the front door trembled again and I heard a faint click, as though a lock was turning somewhere inside. Then, to my mingled relief and trepidation, it swung open.
I stood there for a moment, not sure if I ought to go in or not. Sebastian, however, had no such worries. He stepped right over the threshold as though he owned the place.
I looked inside as he did. The interior wasn’t gloomy at all. The door opened into a short foyer that led up to a set of stairs. An antique side table was pushed against one wall and there was an old-fashioned lamp with a white frosted globe painted with pink climbing roses. It was glowing softly, as though to light my way inside.
Since nothing bad had happened to Sebastian—his bushy tail was currently disappearing around the corner—I got brave and decided to step inside myself.
“Okay,” I muttered, mostly to myself. “Here goes.”
As I stepped over the threshold, I thought I heard the little voice again.
“Welcome home, child,” it breathed.
“Uh, thank you,” I said, looking around. But no one answered.
I was afraid the door might swing shut behind me and disappear like the one on the bridge, but it stayed open, which was a relief. If it had slammed shut, I would have felt immediately trapped. I caught myself thinking that maybe the house knew that and it—or he—didn’t want to scare me.
I tried to push the idea out of my mind, but it wouldn’t quite go. I made my way deeper into the house, passing by the stairs and following Sebastian around the corner.
I found myself in a cozy living room. There was a big, overstuffed couch upholstered in a faded floral print with three hand-crocheted lace doilies across the back. A fireplace at the far end of the room already had a pile of logs in it, as though it was waiting for someone to light it.
“I don’t know anything about making a fire,” I remarked aloud. “I’d be afraid I’d burn the house down—I don’t think I’ve ever lived anywhere with a fireplace in my life.”
But even as I spoke the words, I had another bright flash of memory. I was sitting on the worn carpet in front of the fireplace while someone carefully untangled and combed my hair. I could see the flames flickering in the grate and feel their warmth on my face. I was wrapped in a towel and my hair was damp—I’d just had a shower or maybe a bath…
Then the memory was gone but the implications were clear—I had lived here before, or at least visited. In fact, it seemed like my entire lost childhood was somehow tied to this house.
