Braced, I shove the keys into the lock, take a deep, clean breath and twist the knob.
The door swings open to silence and a faint hint of dust. Before me, a foyer yawns wide and still. A hollow chamber of echoes that seem to breathe as I step over the threshold.
It’s freezing.
Without anyone adjusting the furnace, my breath is a white fog blowing out around me.
Gingerly, I drop my bag down next to an iron shoe cubby and sweep the walls for a switch. I find it and flip, flooding the spacewith a filthy glow that illuminates the rich, paisley wallpaper and dark, polished wood.
Nothing has changed.
It’s like the few times Mom and I visited on our way to Nova Scotia for vacation. The only thing missing is the sour-faced woman standing in the doorway between the foyer and the living room, wringing her hands in a dishcloth and scowling at us for disturbing her.
“Oh, Aunt Laura,” I murmur, not nostalgically, but with a sort of acceptance that feels equally heavy.
She was a terrible person without question, but I would never wish death on her. Not the way she went.
Alone. Forgotten.
With no one bothering to mourn her longer than the hour of the ceremony before getting into their cars and going home. No one, not a single neighbor or friend, bothered to stay for the reception after. Most of the family left, too. Those who remained did so out of familial obligation.
Except Mom.
She stayed until the very end, until the last person walked out. She cleaned up and stayed a little longer with Aunt Laura’s urn before taking it home with her because Aunt Laura’s own children didn’t want it.
I asked Mom once why Aunt Laura was the way she was. Why she was so hateful. Children weren’t born bitter and cruel. Something must have happened to make her that way.
Mom said Aunt Laura was always looking for something and the longer she went without finding it, the colder she became.
“Even as kids, Laura was always so angry. Like the world was holding her against her will.”
Part of me wonders if she ever found it. If she died so suddenly because she could finally rest.
Letting the thought go, I shut the door behind me and drag off my boots. Both are placed neatly on the rack. My coat gets snagged on a hook in the wall, and I unearth a pen and pad from the side pocket of my duffle.
And pause.
My wrist isn’t hurting, and my head isn’t throbbing. I even give my hand a tentative flick just to be sure and it all feels fine.
“Interesting,” I mutter under my breath and continue to my first task — locating the heater.
I find it in the kitchen and tweak the knob, nudging it a few degrees and sigh when I hear the rumble of the furnace beneath my feet.
“Thank God,” I breathe through chattering teeth
One task complete, I begin.
Or I try to.
I’m about to start the walk through when I remember my phone in the cupholder of the car. Outside. In the snow. After I’ve already removed my coat and boots.
Nope. Not going back for it.
I’ll assess the house and call Mom when I get back on the road.
The tour starts in the parlor. I make note of each piece of furniture and framed picture of torn limbs. Distorted faces screaming while chains crush and twist around bones. Grotesque masks of human faces wrenched in agony and splattered with blood.
Each room is a museum of horror. Of a war between weakness and evil. It’s a shrine of symbols that make my skin itch and books I’m too scared to touch. Especially the ones with the patched cover stitched together with crusted thread. Each crudely cut square is a different color.
