It stood tall and proud, a ghost of former glory. It was firm, solid; peeking through the branches of trees as cars drove by. It looked untouchable; atop a small hill sparsely surrounded by trees weathered and worn, its siding striped and speckled with old age. Its size was misleading, the compact appearance giving away nothing of the depths of its interiors. Few knew the truth about the house at 231 Maple; in fact many knew so little to the point that the house barely existed in their minds. Its presence often overlooked and ignored that one might start to believe that the house didn’t exist at all. The town saw the house as a curse, at least the few that actually acknowledged its presence. One never spoke of it, the mere mention of it gained such a curious and suspicious looks that whoever mentioned it eagerly changed the subject.
It was once inhabited by a young man. Coming to a reasonable wealth at a fairly young age due to the death of a relative, he bought the house, repaired its exterior, and moved in. In the early weeks of his purchase, he filled the house with the finest furniture, the finest food, the finest company. He seemed content, the house seemed alive, and nothing seemed out of the ordinary. And then suddenly it all changed. It appeared as if things suddenly stopped moving in the house. The man never left, people never entered. Its doors and windows shut so tight, one could never know if anyone even lived in it anymore. The house became quiet, it stood still and eventually the man was forgotten. His name erased from the minds of his former friends, until one day years later he emerged. He was a changed man, frail and weak; his eyes were dead. He got into a car and left, speaking not a word to anyone. A phantom, slipping quickly out of sight. The house was put up for sale with all of his possessions still inside.
Decades later found him dead in his studio apartment, a paranoid old man who boarded off his windows, taped measuring tapes to the floor and walls, blinded the room with sterile white light, itinerated all of his belongings down to an old brass skeleton key that remained in a locked box upon a shelf. His closets were taped shut, his cabinets locked closed, every shadow banished away with a light bulb. He had no friends; he lived life as a ghost. He lived silently, he died silently. The house remained empty, no one wanted it. It remained abandoned and it appeared as if it would stay that way forever. But that was before his will was found and read.
He left the house to an old love of his, one that had lived with him before he disappeared and mothered his children. However, she too had passed on and in turn it was left to the next living relative; his grandson. A grandson that had never met him, never spoke a word to him, never even knew he existed. A grandson named Leon Salomon Gennette. A grandson who happens to be me.
Upon first glance, I judged that the house held no importance to me. I decided that I would go through his possessions, set up an estate sale, sell the house and then move on with my life. I didn’t know the man and thus his possessions held no value to me other than the in the physical sense. I brought a small suitcase, ready to set up in a guest bedroom until the whole ordeal was sorted.
After being dropped off by the taxi, I approached the front door easily. Thoughts of life at home distracted me from the slight unease tumbling around in my stomach.
I've actually been playing around with this one for a while.
should I continue?? dun dun dunnnn.....
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