The twinkle lights don't work anymore

Peter parked his car in front of the lightless house, his fingers slid carefully over the keys and rested on the steering wheel. While a lonely rose lay down next to him on the passenger seat, wrapped in plastic, his head was like a medieval statue, facing the horizon of immensity with digression. But there was nowhere to go, wherever he looked, the darkness of the night looked back, and it was enough for him to live with that. It was Christmas night. A few flashing lights made the street look like a post-apocalyptic scene without power, but the spirit of that street had gone for a long time.

The man entered his home holding nothing but the keys, no flowers were allowed inside. All the color he needed was reserved to the photos on the walls and tv in the living room that greeted him with scandalous voices from the novel; it was always on in some random channel, at least during the day, that was the unpredictability of such a company. Photographs don’t speak, but Peter could catch himself wandering in daydreams for minutes straight if no loud sound made him wake up. Staring at that elderly couple had become a religious act.

Not unlike the pattern weeks, he went upstairs heading towards the bedroom to enjoy a piece of cozy and soft cotton and feather mattress. On the way, Zack popped up in front of him to bark and wag its tail until the human leg could warm it. It was a strange behavior for the dog to just greet his owner on the second floor, but Peter was so tired that even putting effort into these thoughts made his brain contract.

 A few hours passed since he fell asleep, and simply by a random time, Peter opened his eyes, getting used to consciousness again. It was a slow process, but he could feel drops of sweat making his shirt sticky, however, besides his bed a dark figure shook frenetically. Zack was cold actually, which one of them was sick?

Peter could have got up to check his pet and find out what was happening, sickness was the cause for him to wake up, but he started doubting his mental state when a white fabric passed through the half-open door, looking like someone's clothes; even Zack lowered his head on the carpet. The problem would have to be solved by searching.

Each step on the stairs was like the creaking of a door. He knew the possible intruder was down because upstairs only had locked rooms and an empty bathroom. Peter reached the floor alone, feeling like the coldness was penetrating his body one more time, but sweat continued competing to gain control. With his sliding body he went to check the kitchen and nothing, saw the office and also nothing. But the basement… it was open.

After a deep swallow, a current of bravery ran through him like a drug. His breath was so heavy he feared an invader would use it in their favor, predicting his arrival and jumping over him to immobilize the victim, but when his foot touched the ground, the dust was what jumped over him, clogging his thin nostrils. Among bunches of boxes and piles of papers, his eyes didn’t help to look at a white sheet in a corner.

It seemed to have something hidden there, deliberately, and it wouldn’t leave his mind alone if it kept there. Peter took a step, the shape was getting more protruding, another one, it moved a little, was it the air or that rigid tip was a hand? One more step and… “BAM!”. Peter rushed back to face any threat, but the danger was nonexistent. The highest pile had fallen due to so many objects on its top. The man could notice sketches stained with something red, scribbles on top that weren't his trademark, and sad faces drawn on them. The white sheet seemed less full, having only old wood beneath it, but still his heart pounded faster than any car ever made.

Was I dreaming? It’s not difficult to consider such a hypothesis when the lack of sleep is intense, but the noises in the living room served to rekindle the fear that never went away. This time, Peter decided to walk faster, grab a person in the act, but the lights of the tv had dancing shadows from a fantasy series the house owner had been a fan of for a long time. I didn’t… Peter didn’t tune into the channel, there was not a reason for that, all the nostalgia coming with that show was harmful for his soul. But then, answering his prayers, the device started failing, the images of battles and swords crossing bones and flesh froze little by little, until a blip turned the screen into darkness and two figures of white short hair appeared holding hands behind him just to fade away quickly.

A smile cut their faces in the middle, but the eyes were so sagging downwards that it created a disturbing contrast. Now Peter had drums in his chest, the search for a thief or beggar became a ghost story. This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening, he repeated over and over in his mind. The best option was to take the phone in his bedroom and call anyone to help, better than conducting an investigation by himself.

Rushing towards his bedroom was a speedy task, but his ears heard heavy steps accompanying them, except that his back was void. Peter quickened his pace even more, his eyes over his shoulder. The noise that joined his feet was louder, it couldn't be him, but the impulse led him to lock the room without looking again.

Peter didn’t waste any time, he scanned the desk for his cell phone but it was not there, nor Zack. The two most important things had gone and the man had no idea about how to find them. A rustling sound got his attention and with tears running down his face, Peter had to see what was passing below the door. A shadow left through the corridor as he picked up a note. As you liked him so much, go to the window and you’ll find your next story. Peter found those words enigmatic, but he obeyed them with fear and was rewarded with the most horrific vision he could ever imagine; his dog, tied with ropes and squirting blood in the last breaths of life.

Screw this. Peter closed his fists and got out to face whatever threat was waiting for him. He ran through the lightless corridors, the sound of persecution haunted him again, but he wouldn’t stop, he had to continue, it was just a matter of taking the key, unlocking the door and… Peter was out, he went to look for his dog, cry for him, but there was nothing there. No signs of a murdered dog, did he leave? Peter’s question was ended by the muffled cry from his pet, coming from a little bush next to the house.

Zack came running over his thigh and received the most loving hug ever. He was relieved his dog was back to him, but this couldn’t be said about his house. Peter looked at the place and saw the silhouette of a man upstairs and the shadow of a woman marking the window in front of him. There was only a place to go, one that could be the key for that nightmare.

Peter walked for minutes, but when he reached the cemetery, no tiredness overcame him. The tombstones I wanted were hidden among the grass and mud, but I always knew where they were. With a trembling body, the man got on his knees and cried, reciting the words his throat stopped him from setting free. Forgive me, I love you. A long monologue that felt like a conversation to him extended until the sunrise, and when the light hurted those swollen eyes, he knew what he had to do; go home and face the truth, the ghosts live inside him.

Back at home, Peter could settle down again. Day after day, his work and books were getting more solid, his soul softer and the greatest project of his life began to be a reality. A story about his parents, about how they were real warriors that took care of him and helped him to be who he is, but couldn’t see the results coming. Whatever they are, their story will be known. With this in mind, Peter finished his new masterpiece: The life of the dead and their story never told.