House Of Memories

• Luca Moschenski, Grade 12, Ringwood Secondary College
• Short Story
• 2015

Excellence Award in the 'Beyond Words 2015' competition

Upon entering the house, I was immediately greeted with feelings of familiarity which quickly gave way to dread. A knot formed in the pit of my stomach, and I had to stop to catch my breath. Why did I feel this way? I had never seen the house before in my life, much less set foot inside it.
I asked my wife to slow down. She was the adventurous type, always one step ahead of me when it came to anything that could elevate her heart rate.
We had seen the old house a million times. It stood dark and ominous in the middle of the forest – the yard and what was left of the concrete carport completely overtaken with thick underbrush. The chipped paint from the siding was flaking onto the forest floor, and the decrepit wooden panels framed the gaping black windows which, now devoid of any glass, resembled mouths open in eternal silent screams.
We passed by it earlier that evening and, encouraged by the several glasses of wine we had with dinner, finally decided to poke around a bit. I always thought it was strange how I had never been inside the house, but had been aware of its presence all my life. I had grown up only a few streets over, but moved to another area of town when my parents were murdered.
After I got over my momentary bout of nausea, my wife beckoned my upstairs. Not trusting the old wooden steps (especially given my girth), I gingerly made my way up to the second floor, where I lost sight of her once again. After calling her name several times, I heard her shout my name from the attic. It sounded urgent.
Once I made my way to the attic, (I was legitimately afraid for my life as I ascended the old ladder), I found my wife in the middle of the dusty floor examining the contents of what appeared to be an old metal box. She looked at me with a face full of confusion, horror, awe, and the slightest hint of burning curiosity.
“Its…you.”
I sat down with her and my jaw dropped as I looked over the contents of the box. Pictures of me as a child with my parents standing in front of our old house – the one a few streets over. Except the gate didn’t match, neither did the front door. Then it dawned on me. They were standing in the front yard of the house I was currently in.
More pictures – disturbing ones. My parents dead, covered in blood. These weren’t crime scene photos…they were taken before the police got there. I threw the pictures to the ground and ordered my wife to leave with me. I never wanted to see this place again. Before I could exit the musty attic, she brought one more thing to my attention. An old knife, laced with what appeared to be blood. There was also a small note:
Don’t turn around.