No. Not again. The words hang faintly in my head as I start to make my way to the front door, a can of gasoline in my hand. The halls are empty. No light comes through the windows. My footsteps land softly on the carpet. My other hand is bleeding badly, and the blood stains the rug, making a path anyone could follow. No one would. Soon the house would be nothing more than a pile of ashes on a foundation that had always been broken. The stale memories would go up in flames, and I could finally leave.
I round the corner and hear a child laughing at something that has never happened, a fake memory, one that will disappear if I think about it too much. A last-ditch attempt to keep me here. A little girl, the one laughing, runs in front of me, dragging a dog on a leash. The dog is laughing with her. The little girl’s smile pulls at her skin and distorts her face. Her mouth shouldn’t stretch that far, and there's no light behind her eyes. She reminds me of myself. I have to get her out of here.
She stops in front of me and reaches out her hand. I take it. My hand stops bleeding. Her hand is too cold, too heavy, her nails are dirty and long. She stops laughing but her smile never falters. I hold on tighter.
She is in control now, leading me back to where I came from, up every single stair and past every room I had vowed never to enter again. She stops at the door of the attic, right where I started walking.
“Do you want to meet my pet dog?” She holds up the leash and the toy dangles a couple inches off the ground.
“No, we have to get out of here.” The dog is still laughing.
I start to turn, but she holds my hand tighter. “Please don’t leave me alone,” she says. She’s still smiling that horrible empty smile, but her voice carries every tear she’s ever held in.
“We have to go; you have to come with me.” I try to pull her hand, but she yanks me toward her with much more strength than any kid should have. Her nails dig further into my skin, reopening my wounds, and I stumble back into the attic, standing right where I started. The blood from earlier is gone.
The dog stops laughing. The girl’s smile widens, but it still doesn’t reach her eyes. She looks exactly like I did when I was little.
Then I realize. “No. Not again,” I plead. She looks at me, then turns and walks away, disappearing in the dark.
I start to make my way to the front door, a can of gasoline in my hand. The halls are empty.
I round the corner and hear a child laughing at something that has never happened, a fake memory, one that will disappear if I think about it too much. A last-ditch attempt to keep me here. A little girl, the one laughing, runs in front of me, dragging a dog on a leash. The dog is laughing with her. The little girl’s smile pulls at her skin and distorts her face. Her mouth shouldn’t stretch that far, and there's no light behind her eyes. She reminds me of myself. I have to get her out of here.
She stops in front of me and reaches out her hand. I take it. My hand stops bleeding. Her hand is too cold, too heavy, her nails are dirty and long. She stops laughing but her smile never falters. I hold on tighter.
She is in control now, leading me back to where I came from, up every single stair and past every room I had vowed never to enter again. She stops at the door of the attic, right where I started walking.
“Do you want to meet my pet dog?” She holds up the leash and the toy dangles a couple inches off the ground.
“No, we have to get out of here.” The dog is still laughing.
I start to turn, but she holds my hand tighter. “Please don’t leave me alone,” she says. She’s still smiling that horrible empty smile, but her voice carries every tear she’s ever held in.
“We have to go; you have to come with me.” I try to pull her hand, but she yanks me toward her with much more strength than any kid should have. Her nails dig further into my skin, reopening my wounds, and I stumble back into the attic, standing right where I started. The blood from earlier is gone.
The dog stops laughing. The girl’s smile widens, but it still doesn’t reach her eyes. She looks exactly like I did when I was little.
Then I realize. “No. Not again,” I plead. She looks at me, then turns and walks away, disappearing in the dark.
I start to make my way to the front door, a can of gasoline in my hand. The halls are empty.