“It’s just a book,” I tell myself, trying not to draw a parallel between this and an armchair I saw online made of human skin.
Still, I leave it nestled between an anatomy tome and a book about plants on the dining room table.
Not a single photo of family in sight as I loop my way back towards the front of the house. Not even Aunt Laura’s own kids. Part of me is relieved I came and not them. I can’t imagine how hurt I would be to find out my mom couldn’t be bothered to hang up a single picture of me.
But had plenty of space for a woman getting her chest cavity cracked open while a creature with horns and a reptilian tongue fucks her.
Still, the house is remarkably clean. Dusty, sure, but that’s understandable given no one’s stepped foot inside since they took her away. Aunt Laura must have cleared away the mountains of trash I remember seeing the last time I was here. The towers of old newspapers, the baskets of random journals and jars, tattered trash bags stuffed with filthy rags.
Still, none of that holds a candle to the infestation of creepy crawlies I remember the time we visited when I was nine. The scurrying roaches sneaking between the boxes.
The millipedes.
The spiders and ants.
The rats.
That single visit had been a core memory for me for years, a firm drive to never become like that.
Part of me can’t help wondering if that was Mom’s subtle way of teaching me to keep my room clean. If so, the plan worked because I can’t stand clutter or chaos to this day.
The columns of filthy dishes, the crusty pots and pans are gone from the kitchen. The counter space gleams beneath the dust to match the polished hardwood floors.
I can’t even spot a single cobweb in the corners.
Ignoring the door I know goes to the basement — because I’m not dumb enough to wander down there at nighttime alone — I pick my way upstairs.
I pause on the landing and follow the shadows filling the corridor to the row of doors leading all the way to the end. I wasn’t allowed up here as a kid and the newness of it has me pausing to collect my bearings.
Obviously, it’s the bedrooms, which means Aunt Laura’s room is behind one of the closed barricades. Finding it isn’t nearly as concerning as the realization that ... there are no lights when there should be. I saw it from outside. One of these doors should have a faint splinter coming from the bottom.
Unless someone’s inside the house and I scared them when I came in.
I take a slow, calming breath.
At best, it’s a homeless person trying to get out of the storm. I can understand that. At worst, it’s an axe murderer on the run and he’s going to kill me to keep me from calling the cops.
Realistically, neither option is great, but I pray for a homeless person as I creep closer.
The first door is a linen closet packed full of soft, fluffy towels.
The second door is a small bathroom that holds the lingering scent of baby powder. A scent I actually like.
I hesitate at the third door. I highly doubt it’s going to be another closet or bathroom. The remaining four have to be bedrooms. The whole thing makes me think of that game with the gun and single bullet.
Any second, I’m going to open the wrong door and get blasted.
Somewhere below, a clock strikes a single, terrifying bong that nearly has me wetting myself. The pen in my hand clattersto the floor and rolls into a puddle of shadows. Vanishing entirely.
“Shit!” I gasp, clutching my chest.
Annoyed and still shaken, I face the door, more determined than ever to hit whoever jumps out at me.
The third door is a bedroom, dark and empty. It overlooks the backyard so I know this isn’t it.
The fourth door is a series of stairs leading up to, I’m guessing, the attic.
I will not be going up there.
