Echoes of a Home

The newlyweds stood before the decrepit farmhouse that was now their new home. Rather than seeing the worn, weathered, and tottering facade, they saw potential for what it could hold. The groaning floorboards, wallpaper lost to time, and once detailed woodwork layered in dust would soon transform into their dream. A dream of a future, one filled with family, stability, and ever bounding with love. Unbeknownst to them, deja vu guided their design, echoing the past and offering the house a second chance. Records may have been lost, but not to the house. Its walls harbored memories of joy and death. The house ached for the tragedies of its inhabitants, wishing to mourn with them, immortalized by photos and antiques within its walls. Yet it also mourned for the future, expecting new tragedies long before they arrived. However, unlike those before them, the house found itself reluctant to watch this couple suffer the fate it had come to expect.

When the construction had finished, both thought the creaking and sounds would cease. However, the floors only continued their melody. Just as one plays a piano, each footstep strikes a chord— even if it were not their own. Whispers resonated through the hall, but were merely met with silence when turning around. Each thought it to be the other, but only to learn it was neither. Keys and money went missing, as glimpses of fleeting dark shadows in mirrors filled their days, while at times a faint shifting sound would echo from the floorboard beneath. The dog often stared, low growling and whining, towards the crawlspace that seemed lost to time at first glance.

Whispers soon gave way to quiet sobs and a shout at 2:19 AM each night they were there. They always awoke to the Monet painting fallen, as the still waters stared upwards from the floor. The pillows were thrown about the living room. One late night, they discovered their kitchen cabinets and pantries would open at 2:15 AM. And so the house kept this nightly cadence. Both had assumed ghosts; what else could one expect from a 200-year-old house? Journals from the past recorded these events, despite the lack of deaths. But it was their fortunate luck when a flood occurred. The crawl space that was once lost to time shared its secrets of one hiding within, quickly banished, but only briefly locked away.

The couple felt relieved that the house was finally at peace, but only for a fleeting moment. Both husband and wife dreamed of the house and the warning it provided. You see, for people think that a house is only a thing, but it is something deeper still. It can choose to cherish or disregard. Just as the homeowners cared for the house, the house grew to hold the couple with high regard. So it gave its owners warnings, one final time. Warnings given to others of previous generations have only to remain ignored, a final plea left unheard.

The couple dreamed of an unknown figure hiding, then finding, and, at last, chasing them in the kitchen. But they had told themselves that it was simply an unsettling dream, built upon anxiety. As it was only that morning when the one living in their walls was taken away. But a whispered caution played on repeat in their dreams throughout the night, more pleas from the house itself. For it was not simply a mere forewarning, but reality. The unknown man who had claimed the house as his once again returned.

The house had done its best not to whisper, but shout in the only way a home could — opening and closing its doors to create a beat meant to draw attention to those who lived there. While the creaks and groans acted as much of a verbal plea. The whisper that turned into shouting had not been enough to awaken the couple. Yet, with some stroke of luck. It had been enough to alert at least one in the home. The dog, now awakened from a deep sleep on the rug and completely alert, whining at the door. The house had long foreseen this night, but there was nothing else it could do except to watch the horrific scene play before it.

With the help of the house, and the dog, the couple quickly became aware of their precarious situation. They had thought they could call for help, but each attempt remained in vain. The events to follow sealed their fate: hiding in the closet with quiet sobs that matched those heard in previous nights, followed by a chase that knocked over the painting of Monet. Pillows were thrown about to attempt to slow the intruder. Going to their final resting place, the kitchen. At 2:15, pantries were thrown open, looking for knives and plates; anything to provide a last attempt at life. It was the husband first to go, then the wife at 2:19 AM, with a muffled scream as the intruder took her life.

The house began to weep, more lives taken, and to be forever memorialized. Only this time, it was not pictures, or even antiques, left behind, but the inhabitants themselves. For you see, ghosts are seldom what we believe them to be. Scars of the past and scars of the future will always leave an imprint, just as shells are left buried along the shore. We cannot change the tide, but only tread to and fro when told. Most are lucky to be pulled from the shore when it is their time, to be taken out to sea and leave all behind. But there are some, forever trapped in the tide. This house had considered its shore empty, for each inhabitant since its beginning was always brought out to sea. But now it has a company of two. It wept for them, but also was not ready to let them go. For you see, it had to happen this way; they were too good to drift out with the tide