WTF the House just Moved
My phone buzzed with a voicemail notification from my lawyer.
"Mr. Esmond, I'm sorry for your loss, and you have my condolences. But we need to have a discussion regarding the will and the estate of your mother. Please reach out to me as soon as you can."
I groaned; three weeks seemed long enough to wallow in my sorrow. The world didn't stop; I did. I called back and confirmed a meeting.
I pulled the covers over my head and tried to sleep, but sleep wouldn't come. Instead, I lay awake in my bed, replaying my mother's last words to me.
She was lying on the hospital bed in her blue patient gown, hooked up to machines like some sick experiment, the sounds of the monitor machine beeping in melancholy tones. I remember her face; it was pale, lacking the blush of life, and her eyes were a dirty yellow sclera with remnants of a hint of brown left in her pupil.
"Bodie, no matter what happens, I know you will be fine. Grief is love with nowhere to go."
My eyes swell with tears and I eventually passed out.
Now I'm standing in front of the house where I grew up, keys heavy in my palm. The cottage house sits on 7036 Roses Street like a tired old woman, her pastel yellow paint peeling, her burnt umber shutters askew, and the gardens full of weeds and thorns.
Mom always said she'd fix up the place "when she had time." Time ran out three weeks ago.
I came here to pack things up, to sort through a lifetime of accumulated memories and decide what stays and what goes.
The realtor says the house will sell quickly once it's emptied—cottage homes are popular with young couples looking for "character and a simple vintage feel."
I suppose that's what they call the creaking floorboards and the drafty windows that never quite close properly.
The key turns with familiar resistance. The door swings open, and the smell hits me immediately: lavender, old books, and something inimitably maternal. My legs nearly give out. For a moment, I expect to hear her voice calling from the kitchen, asking if I want tea and to sit down for a conversation.
The silence is absolute.
I set my overnight bag down and looked around. I should start with the kitchen, I think. That's always easiest; dishes and utensils don't carry emotional weight. But my feet carry me instead to the living room, where I sink into Dad's old recliner that sat in the corner. He died when I was seventeen, and Mom never moved the chair.
Next to the chair was a small end table, and on top of it was a family photo of baby me, Mom, and Dad, posing in front of the house. They looked so happy and hopeful of the future, just a young couple who eloped and were ready to spearhead any challenge with their baby boy. They were on top of the world.
I looked around the living room more intently. The furniture was arranged exactly as she'd left it: two chairs positioned facing each other slightly, a small table between them, the afghan draped over the back of the sofa that looked out the front window of the house with a coffee table in front of it, and the stack of romance novels on the table with the reading glasses perched on top of them.
***
I close my eyes and try to remember the last conversation we had. It was about Jane, about the divorce. Mom had listened with that patient expression she always wore when I was troubled, her hands folded in her lap.
"Sometimes people grow apart, Bodie," she'd said. "It doesn't mean the love wasn't real."
I'd wanted to argue, to give an excuse or explanation, but that was simply the truth. Jane and I had become strangers sharing a house, polite and distant, going through the motions of a marriage that had died somewhere along the way. But Mom had a way of cutting through my self-pity with quiet but stern wisdom.
"What about Emma?" she'd asked. "Have you talked to her about this?"
Emma. My daughter. Twenty-three years old and brilliant, working at a nonprofit in Boston. She'd stopped returning my calls after the divorce papers were filed. I told myself it was because she was busy, that she needed time to process. But the truth was, I'd failed as a husband, and now I am failing as a father.
***
The house settles around me with familiar creaks and sighs. I should make myself something to eat, maybe start going through Mom's possessions. Instead, I find myself walking through the rooms of the house, touching things and taking in the nostalgia of it all.
I made my way up to my old bedroom; it was exactly as I'd left it when I left for college. School trophies on shelves covered in dust, posters of bands I'd loved when music vainly mattered to me, and a desk where I'd written essays and worked on projects that piqued a boy's interest at the time.
Every surface, every corner holds a memory. This house isn't just a building, it was a time capsule of the boy I once was, a physical manifestation of everything I was before life taught me how to lose things.
I sat on the edge of the bed and pull out my phone. Emma's name was on the screen, the last text from her dated three weeks ago:
"Sorry about Grandma. Let me know if you need anything."
I'd never responded. What was I supposed to say? That I needed everything? That I was drowning in grief and guilt and couldn't figure out how to be a person anymore? The phone stays in my hand, heavy with unanswered texts.
I'll start packing tomorrow, I decided. Tonight, I just want to sit in this house and remember what it felt like to be whole.
***
I awoke at 2:23 AM to the sound of the house moving.
The floorboards beneath me shift and groan with purpose, and the walls seem to breathe around me. I sat up in bed, my heart pounding in my chest, and I listened. The rational part of my mind, the part that spent two decades evaluating insurance claims and calculating risk, immediately offers explanations. Old houses make noise. The heating system could be acting up, causing expansion and contraction in the walls.
I sat perfectly still, waiting for it to happen again. When it did, five minutes later, I felt a mixture of terror and relief. Terror because houses aren't supposed to move. Relief because it meant I wasn't completely losing my mind.
"Foundation settling," I said aloud.
But this isn't settling. This is movement, deliberate and strange, as if the house itself is responding to the emotional turmoil within me. The increasingly frequent motions suggest something uncanny, sometimes a gentle swaying, like being rocked to sleep, and other times a bouncy forward motion, as though the house were walking on invisible legs at a brisk hurrying pace.
Through the windows, I watch the world outside shift and change. Sometimes it's the neighborhood I remember from childhood, with kids riding bikes and mothers hanging laundry on lines. Sometimes it's the present day, with newer cars and manicured lawns. Sometimes it's something else entirely, rolling hills and distant mountains, as if the house is traveling through landscapes that exist only in dreams.
I grab my phone and turn on the flashlight, stepping carefully into the hallway. The beam cuts through the darkness, revealing walls that look perfectly ordinary. The family photos hang straight in their frames. The runner down the center of the hall lies flat and undisturbed. Yet beneath my feet, the floor continues to shift and sway.
"This isn't happening," I whisper to the darkness. "This is grief. This is stress. This is everything finally catching up with me."
It must be grief-induced hallucinations. They're common, especially in the first few months after loss. The mind plays tricks when it's overwhelmed by trauma. That's what this is. It has to be.
I make my way downstairs, gripping the banister for support. Each step feels like it's moving beneath me, but the flashlight beam shows everything in its proper place. The living room looks exactly as it did before I went to bed.
I settle into the recliner and close my eyes, focusing on my breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. A technique taught to me during one of the marriage counseling sessions with Jane, back when we still believed we could fix what was broken between us.
The house continues its strange journey around me.
***
I awoke to silence and stillness; I must have fallen asleep from the stress and panic earlier. I looked around, scanning for any anomaly. I noticed the picture was flipped downward, and I propped it back upright. Everything in the house was the same, except for some items that had fallen to the floor.
I looked around the room and noticed soft sunlight peaking through the windows. I noticed the front door was no longer a dirty white door but a blue color.
I sat for a few seconds to gather myself until I began to hear something like waves crashing. It seems to be coming from behind the door, coming from outside. I got up and made my way towards the blue door, each step shaky, but as I got closer, a warm feeling seemed to soothe me, inviting me to open the door.
I turned the knob and opened the door; the light blinded me, and before me was a valley of lush greenery, roses of all colors spread out in beds, and a sandy dirt path leading through the pine trees to a sandy beach lake with ice-capped mountains looming in the far distant background. I made my way through the path and took a look behind me; there the house sat, almost as if it was smiling at me, like it was happy for me.
As I approached the sandy beach, the sunshine brought warmth to my skin, the cool winds brushed against my hair, the waves from the lake crashed melodically against the shore, and the buzzing of bees, butterflies, and dragonflies of vibrant colors filled the air. I stared in awe, taking in the beauty of the place that stood before me.
"I must be dreaming," I said to myself, gasping and pinching myself to make sure.
"All that pinching will leave you red," chuckled a familiar voice behind me.
Instantly, I felt goosebumps. Can't it be? That voice was warm and loving. I turned around slowly, and there she was, Mom. She was sitting on the sofa in the house.
She looks exactly as she did ten years ago, before the arthritis bent her fingers and the years painted silver in her hair. She's wearing her favorite dress, the blue one with tiny colored roses that she always wore to church, and she's reading one of her romance novels, lips curved in a small smile.
"Mom?" The word comes out like a croak.
She looks up, and her face breaks into the warm smile I remember from childhood.
"Bodie, sweetheart. I was wondering when you'd wake up."
I know this isn't real. I know she's dead; I watched them lower her casket into the ground three weeks ago. But she looks so solid, so present, that I can't help but hope.
"I thought..." I start, then stop. How do you tell your dead mother that you thought she was dead?
"You thought I was gone," she says gently, setting down her book. "I know, sweetheart. But I'm right here. I've always been right here."
I can't help but deny what I'm seeing. My voice trembles as I manage to speak:
"You can't be here," I say. "You're dead. I was there. I held your hand from where you were lying in the casket."
She gestures calmly for me to sit, as if my protest is just a child refusing to accept bedtime.
I want to. God, I want to sink into that couch and pretend the last three weeks never happened. I want to tell her about the divorce, about how I've messed everything up with Emma, and about how I feel like I'm drowning in my own life. But I can't move. Some part of me knows that if I sit down, if I accept this beautiful lie, I'll never be able to face the truth again.
Her expression doesn't change.
"I'm here now."
"No." I shake my head, standing up from the recliner. "No, you're not. This is grief. This is my mind playing tricks. You're dead, and I'm alone in this house, and I'm losing my mind."
She watches me with patient eyes.
"If I'm not real, then what does it matter if you sit with me?"
The question stops me cold. If she's a hallucination, a product of my overwhelming grief, then what harm could there be in indulging it? What's wrong with spending a few minutes in a world where my mother is still alive.
"Because if I pretend you're here, then I'll never accept that you're gone. And if I don't accept that you're gone, then I'll never be able to move forward." I said in gasping breaths.
"Move forward to what?" she asks. "To that empty apartment, Jane left you? To the job you've already lost? To the daughter who won't return your calls?"
My mother replied in a stern tone.
Each word hits like a physical blow.
"That's not fair."
"Life isn't and never was fair, Bodie. It never has been. But that doesn't mean you have to face it alone."
I sat there, pondering what she had just said. "Life was never fair." The words left a coppery taste in my mouth. She was right; I did learn that years ago, when I was seventeen, when my father died. The memory came flooding back to that night.
***
The flashing red and blue lights pulsed a pattern through the window, lighting up the living room. A knock at the door, and my mother opened it.
Two officers, hats in hands, their faces masks of professional pity.
"Heart attack," they said. "Massive." "At work." "Didn't suffer." They offered kind words in hopes of mitigating the sad news; instead, it was like rubbing salt into a fresh wound.
Then came the sound of my mother's shrieking cry. It wasn't just a sound; it was like a physical force. The high-pitched, shattering wail made me wince, curling my shoulders in as if I was taking a beating. It was the sound of a woman being severed from her other half.
A bitter air filled the room, causing me to choke and gasp. I needed to get out of here, get away from this horrible nightmare. I sprinted up the stairs and through the hallway towards my room, desperate to put a door, a wall, or anything between me and the reality downstairs. I threw myself into my room and slammed the door with everything I had.
WHAM!
The walls shook. The floorboards vibrated, and the house seemed to groan in pain.
Clatter
The silver frame on my dresser fell to the floor. A picture of Dad holding me on his shoulders at the beach, both of us waving and smiling at the camera. A glimpse of my mother in his sunglasses. I walked over, my breath coming in jagged gasps, and picked it up. My thumb traced the engraving, the metal cool against my feverish skin.
"I am always proud of you, son. And I will always love you."
Always. A cruel, sick joke. There was no always. There was only "until his heart stopped."
Something inside me snapped. A hot, blinding friction ignited in my chest. I didn't just feel sad; I felt cheated. I felt rage bubbling like a volcano preparing to erupt, ready for fire and ash to cover the world. I spun around and grabbed the lamp off my nightstand, hurling it against the wall. It shattered, but it wasn't enough.
I ripped the sheets off my bed, screaming through gritted teeth, tearing at the fabric as if I could tear the grief out of my own body. I kicked my chair over, sending books cascading across the floor, creating a whirlwind of chaos to match the storm inside of me.
I looked down at the frame on my bed. Dad was smiling up at me, frozen in a time that no longer exists.
"It's not fair!" I screamed, my voice cracking, my throat aching and burning.
"It's not fair!"
With one last scream, nearly tearing my vocal cords, I picked up the picture and hurled it to the floor.
CRASH!
The glass exploded, and the frame splintered, sending a spiderweb of fracture glass across the floor, obliterating the memory.
The bedroom door burst open. I spun around, chest heaving, fists clenched, ready to fight the world. But it was Mom. She stood in the doorway, her face pale and ghostly, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen. She looked at the overturned chair, the shattered lamp, and the broken glass.
Then she looked at me. She didn't yell. She didn't scold. She just rushed forward, stepping over the jagged glass without looking down, and collided with me. She wrapped her arms around me so tight I thought my ribs might crack, but I didn't care.
The fight drained out of me instantly. My legs turned to water, and we sank to the floor together, collapsing into the pile of torn sheets and debris. I buried my face in her shoulder, and I cried like an infant, ugly, heaving sobs that shook my whole body.
"Why?" I choked out, my voice muffled by her shirt. "Why him, Mom? He didn't do anything wrong!"
She began to rock me back and forth, a maternal motion. Her hand, trembling slightly, stroked the back of my head, smoothing my hair down.
"He promised," I stammered, hitting the floor weakly with my fist, right next to the broken frame.
"The frame... it said always. He promised."
"I know, baby," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I know."
My mother pulled back just enough to look me in the eye. Tears spilled down her cheeks, tracking through her makeup. She took my face in both of her hands, her palms warm against my cold, tear-streaked skin.
"He meant it," she said fiercely, though her voice wavered. "He meant it, son."
"Then why isn't he here?" I demanded, the anger flaring up again for a second before drowning in grief.
"It's not fair. Everyone else's dad comes home. Why didn't ours?"
She pulled me back into her chest, resting her chin on top of my head. I could feel the vibrations of her own sobs against my skull.
"It isn't fair," she admitted, refusing to offer a white lie. She didn't say, 'It's God's plan' or 'He's in a better place.' She gave me the only truth she had.
"It is cruel, and it is terrible, and I don't know why. I don't know why his heart stopped. I don't know why we're the ones left here."
We sat there in the wreckage of my room, surrounded by the shattered memory of my father and the absence of his presence. The silence of the house pressed in on us, heavy like it was also holding us tightly; at that moment, I didn't feel alone.
"We just have to keep living," she whispered into my hair, her grip tightening. "Even when it's not fair. We just have to keep living. We still have each other."
***
"Do you know where we are?" asked my mother. Her voice snapped me back from the memory.
I looked at her and around the scenery again, trying to find and form any connections to help me figure out where we are. Then I remembered, it was the painting my mother used to paint on a sunny afternoon. I remember watching her paint, each stroke and brush carefully planned and guided. Each line, dot, and color had a purpose, all in unity for the greater goal.
"It's the—the painting you were always working on. You painted all the things you like: the sandy beach lake, the mountains, the pine tree forest, the valley of colored roses, and the bees, butterflies, and dragonflies." I said, watching her face radiating with a warm smile.
"Correct, Bodie." She nodded in response.
"But I also remember—" I faltered. I remember I destroyed the painting.
A young Bodie wanted to add his "flair" to the painting. What had happened was that I had poured dark red, gray, and black paint on the painting, completely messing up the painting. My mother scolded me angrily; it left me feeling ashamed and angry at myself.
"You did indeed ruin the painting," my mother said as she chuckled.
"I was indeed very upset. I felt so bad for yelling at you. You were just a child wanting to make the painting better. I couldn't deny the fact that what was done is done. So I kept the painting and went to work, creating a new masterpiece. Come, let me show you."
My mother stood up and walked the path back towards the house.
She stopped short in front of the house.
"M-mom? You okay?" I asked.
"Yes, it's just so nice to see the house again."
I looked past her at the house and realized the house wasn't in the abandoned shape it was before. The peeling paint was fresh, the shutters fixed, and the hanging gardens full of blooming flowers. We made our way up the steps, and I opened the door. Everything was different, well, different from its previous state.
"Ah, here it is."
She made her way towards a covered painting that was now mysteriously posted on a stand in the living room by the windows. She pulled off the covers and revealed the painting. The mountains were now gray, the sky had a reddish crimson hue, and the trees were blackened. Everything seemed dead, lifeless, and lonely.
"I'm confused; this is such a stark contrast to the painting before? Everything seems dead and lonely now." I asked.
"Bodie, this painting is about embracing change, especially if it's something you can't control. Yes, the painting before was full of life and colorful. But let me ask you this, do the seasons stay the same all year long?'
"No"
"We can't control the seasons; they change without our consent. So we embrace the changes; fall is filled with cozy campfires. Winter is cold, and the holidays keep us together to be warm; spring is the start of life again. The summer heat brings memories that last a lifetime. Not everything lasts forever, and when change does happen without our control, what do we do? We do our best with the changes that come; we continue living."
I looked at the painting again; somehow, the colors didn't seem so intimidating, so bold, and scary. The colors seemed to have softened and made me feel calm. The red sky is now a pinkish hue, leaving a warm, gentle glow. The gray mountain now feels majestic and grand; it stands tall and proud. The trees that were dark now seemed hopeful, almost excited at what will bloom next on their branches and what animals will call them home next.
"I have to pack your things," I say. "I have to sell the house."
"Do you?" she asks. "Or is that just what you think you're supposed to do?"
I don't have an answer for that. The realtor's words echo in my mind, young couples looking for character, the house selling quickly once it's emptied. But sitting here in the strange morning light, watching my mother's face soft with love, I can't imagine letting strangers live in these walls.
"I don't know what I'm supposed to do," I admit.
"Then don't do anything," she says. "Just be here. Just let the house show you what you need to see. Here, just sit with me." She gestured to the empty space on the sofa next to her.
The house began to move, beginning its strange journey again, and through the windows, I watched the world outside shift and change.
"Where are we going?" I ask.
"Wherever you need to go," Mom said. "The house remembers and knows everything, Bodie. Every joy, every sorrow, every moment of love and loss. It's all here, waiting for you to find it."
I look around the living room, seeing it with new eyes. The walls seem to pulse with memory, and I can almost hear the echoes of decades past, my own laughter as a child, dad's voice reading bedtime stories, and Mom's gentle humming as she worked in the kitchen.
"I don't want to remember," I whisper. "It hurts too much."
"I know," she says softly.
The house rocks gently, and I feel myself swaying with it. The motion is hypnotic, comforting in a way that nothing has been for months. Outside, the world continues to shift and change. The neighbor's house becomes a field of wildflowers, then a forest, then a house again. I closed my eyes and let myself feel the house's movement. It's taking me somewhere I need to go.
***
I must have fallen asleep. I awoke to a dark and empty house. I reached out to feel my mother, but she was gone. Gone like a dream.
"It was a dream." I sighed.
"I must be going crazy; I need to start cleaning up this house and get it ready for the sale," I thought.
I got up and headed towards the kitchen to quench my thirst. The doorbell rang, and I froze in my steps, goosebumps icy on the back of my neck. I slowly turned around and looked at the front door.
"Uh-he-hello?"
Nothing but silence. I shook my head; I must really be losing it. I began to turn back around, and all of a sudden, three loud bangs rattled the front door, nearly splintering it.
"WHAT THE F—WHO'S THERE, DAMMIT!?" I shouted.
The banging continued, and the house began to rattle and groan. The walls were cracking and splintering. I fell to my knees and tried to block out the noise by covering my ears. It was so loud and violent, I swear my brain was bouncing around in my head, hitting all the corners of my skull, causing an intense migraine.
Then it stopped abruptly; it went silent. The house groaned like it was letting out a sigh of relief. The cracks and splinters of the walls are slowly repairing themselves.
"Is the house alive?" I said quietly to myself.
"Bodie? Bodie? Open the door for Mummy; let me in!"
I quickly look towards the front door in shock. Mom? Is it really her? Maybe it wasn't a dream after all. I noticed the door was now a dark crimson red color with a faint red hue glowing from under the door.
"Bodie, please open the door for Mummy; it's cold out here. Let me in." The voice grabbed my attention again.
It was strange; it sounded like Mom, but it was missing something. It was missing her in a way, something trying to mimic her almost perfectly, but falling short because I know my mom's voice.
"Bodie! Bodie! Open the door for Mummy, please!" The voice said again, but this time a little more raspy and gravelly, like whatever it was was growing tired of keeping up the mimicry.
"Is it really you, Mom?"
"YES, yes, it's me, Mummy. Be a good boy and open the door, please."
Everything in my body sent signals of danger to whatever was behind the red door. Screaming at me to NOT open the door, no matter what. The house groaned in response, like it was agreeing with me.
"OPEN THE DOOR, YOU UNGRATEFUL BOY." The voice hissed angrily, and a loud crash came from the front door.
Whatever it was, it was big; the wooden door bulged when it crashed into it, threatening to break it off from its hinges and letting whatever thing that was outside inside the house. I ran into the kitchen and grabbed a knife, preparing for whatever was coming through the door.
It kept banging, each crash shaking the house violently and making me wince at every loud crash. The crashing stopped, and a woman's voice shrieked loud enough to shatter glass. Then a woman sobbing and crying began.
"I'm sorry, Bodie, I'm just so scared out here; Mummy is cold, let me in." The thing was said in my mother's voice.
I can hear it scratching desperately at the door, scratching hard enough to audibly hear the nails scrape and rip off from the thing's hands and the squelch of skin brushing hard against the wooden door. Whatever it is out there, I am not opening the damn door; it's going to have to break it down to get to me.
"Why do you have a knife in your hand, sweetheart? Are you going to hurt Mummy with it?"
I looked to the right side of the front door and into the large living room window that faced outwards from the front of the house. The view was red and black, like my mom's painting after my accident. Everything seemed dead, and a red lightning thunderstorm was angrily brewing outside. The trees danced violently with their sharp branches in the wild winds. The black water formed giant tsunami waves threatening to sweep away the house and flood the entire world.
I saw my mom standing there, or rather, it was something that was portraying itself as my mom. Her blue dress was covered in splotches of crimson red, and it was tattered like a worn, dirty rag. Her hair was long and crazy and whipping around from the wind, forming a spider-like web. Her bloody and broken hands were covering her face beside two eyes with a dirty yellow sclera and dark black iris staring hungrily at me.
"What the Fu—"
The rest of the curse died in my throat as a crack of thunder shook the very foundations of the house. The thing wearing my mother's face didn't flinch.
It just tilted its head, a jagged, jerking motion like a marionette with tangled strings. The yellow eyes widened, the pupils dilating until they were almost entirely black voids.
'Don't you curse Bodie; I didn't raise you that way.” She said, cutting me off sharply.
"You are not my mother; whatever you are, you need to leave," I said in a quiet, stern tone. What the hell is this thing pretending to be my mother? What a cruel joke.
I can see the Thing's eyes get big and angry; it begins to twist and shake its body. It looked like it wanted to scream and crash through the window and do whatever it was going to do to me if it ever got in. But it stopped and straightened itself and spoke in a calm, mother-like voice, speaking as a mother does to a child.
"Now, sweetie, why would you say that to Mummy? That wasn't very nice. Come and be a good boy and let your mummy inside."
I stared at the Thing, not moving and definitely not obeying this Thing's commands.
"You are not my mother," I replied, gripping the knife tighter and preparing myself as I continued to defy it.
The Thing's eyes grew large again, and it began removing its hands from its face to reveal a large mouth full of teeth. It shrieks violently, and its hands grow into large claws and begin to strike at the glass, cracking it with every impact.
"HOW DARE YOU DEFY ME! YOU UNGRATEFUL, SPOILED, ROTTEN BOY! ALL THE SACRIFICES I MADE TO RAISE YOU, AND THIS IS HOW YOU REPAY ME!" It screamed and kept clawing at the window; the cracks grew larger and larger.
I kept expecting the windows to break, but they never did. The Thing stopped clawing the windows, and the cracks on the window have repaired themselves. I now see my mother again, this time correctly—well, everything except the eyes.
"I'm sorry, sweetie, I'm just scared; it's scary out here. Please just let me inside, and I can make your favorite salted caramel cookies," the Thing said softly.
It was so convincing that I started to reminisce about the cookies. I remember coming home from a bad day at elementary school. Timmy Lucas had just roughed me up, and I was crying and rubbing my bruised cheeks as I walked to the front of the house and opened the door.
The smell of cookies filled my nostrils and instantly halted my crying. The joy of eating cookies made me forget about the pain on my cheeks. I made my way into the kitchen and saw my mom pulling the tray to cool.
"Oh my goodness, Bodie! What happened to your face?!"
I snapped out of the cookie trance and instantly remembered the pain on my cheeks. I began to cry again and told her how Timmy had beaten me up for standing up to him. She calmed me down and gave me an ice pack to compress on my cheek.
"I will go and have a talk with Timmy's mother this evening, and sweetie, I am proud of you for standing up for yourself."
I smiled at her; it made me feel good. The smell of
the cookies grabbed my attention again, and I kept staring at the cookies eagerly to put one in my mouth. Mom must have seen my eyes because she told me to wait a couple of minutes to let the cookies cool before I could have one.
As soon as she left, I hurriedly went and grabbed one and took a bite. The warm, gooey caramel from the salted brownie cookie filled my mouth, instantly relieving the pain in my cheek. I giggled excitedly and went for another one.
The house groaned loudly, and I snapped back to reality. I found myself at the door with my hand on the knob, almost turning it to open. I quickly lurched backwards away from the door, sweating heavily at the realization of how close I was to letting that thing inside.
"NO!" The Thing screamed and began to wail.
I was shocked at how it almost manipulated me to let it in. What is this thing? And why does it want me, or what does it want with me?
"Get away from here! Leave me alone!" I shouted.
The thing stopped its wailing and looked at me motionless.
"You are a bad son, a terrible husband, and a horrible father," it muttered.
"Wh-what? Did you say?"
"You are a bad son, a terrible husband, and a horrible father." It repeated monotonously.
"S-stop it! I am not!"
"But you are. A terrible son saw me as a burden to you. You neglected me, you never loved me, and you didn't even stay to hold my hands as I died," the Thing continued muttering.
I covered my ears, not wanting to hear this coming from my mother's own voice. Guilt began to consume me.
I'm not a bad son, am I?
I was dealing with my rocky marriage with Jane at the time. Truthfully, I didn't like seeing my mother deteriorate; it broke me every time I saw her. How can a strong woman like her become something so hollow and ill, a woman who worked hard and toiled every day, just to simply die and become nothing but dust?
I just couldn't bring myself to accept the reality that this time she wasn't going to pull through. I was hoping that if I could deny the reality of her dying, it would come true, and she would beat the cancer and live.
"You neglected me, Bodie; you left me to die alone. You are a coward and a bad son," the Thing's voice muttered in my head, growing louder each time.
"Shut up! Get out of my head! Leave me ALONE!" I shouted.
"You neglected me. You—"
"I said SHUT UP—"
"NO!" the thing squalled.
"You are a terrible son; you ruined everything for me. You ruined the painting; you caused nothing but trouble and were a burden to me. I toiled and worked hard every day for you to neglect me in the end like a coward and leave me to die alone and cold."
I stare at the Thing. I couldn't form a reply; maybe it was right. Tears slowly formed and dripped down from my cheeks.
The Thing laughed; it didn't sound human. It sounded like the screech of the wind outside scraping against the glass—sharp and high-pitched. It was mocking me.
"The painting—you said you weren't mad anymore, and you made the changes to make another masterpiece," I said quietly.
"You really believed that?" The Thing sneered, its head snapping forward on its neck with a sickening crack. It drifted closer, the smell of rot and sulfur growing stronger.
"I said I wasn't mad because you were a sensitive, pathetic child. I lied. Mothers lie to keep the peace."
One of its tattered, broken-nailed hands raised up, pointing a long, accusing finger at me. The red lightning flashed again, illuminating the malice in those yellow eyes.
"I hated what you did to the painting. You smeared it with your clumsy hands and destroyed the painting. Just like you destroyed me when you decided to barely come and visit me at the hospital. The truth is, you didn't want to see me. You were a coward."
"Lies. I was going through a divorce with Jane, Emma was having a hard time processing it, and I tried my best to support you." I replied.
"Jane and Emma," the thing hissed, dragging my wife's and daughters' names out like a curse. It took a step forward, its movements disjointed, bones audibly popping with every inch it gained.
"Jane, Emma. They are just excuses, Bodie. Tiny little shields you hide behind to strengthen your excuses. You chose a failing marriage over the woman who gave you life. You let me rot in that hospital bed... alone."
I squeezed my eyes shut, shaking my head violently. "No. No, I couldn't stand to see you sick. It was too hard."
"Too hard for you?" The voice rose to a shriek, vibrating with the force of the red thunder outside.
"I was the one coughing up blood! I was the one withering away! And you were playing house with a woman who was already leaving you!"
The glass windowpanes shuddered violently, bowing inward with an audible groan, but somehow holding. Black rain and sea spray splattered against the reinforced glass, painting it with streaks of black water. The wind screamed like a banshee through every crack and crevice, threatening to tear the house apart at the seams.
"I was trying my best; I kept on living just like you always told me. We just keep on living."
"Lies, I told you to make yourself a better man, a better son, but sadly it didn't work, did it? You just grew up to be nothing but a miserable, sad man who cries, "Woe is me”. You became a coward and simply left me till my very last breath. You failed as a husband and father; your wife hates you, and your daughter despises you. Look at you, pathetic; your father hates the man you have become. I hate the man you have become."
The words cut deep, wounding and paralyzing, making me flinch at every truth she spoke. I am a terrible son; I ran away and left her to die alone, using my shitty marriage and my cowardice as an excuse.
I did leave her to die alone.
She called for me and wanted me to hold her hand as she drew her last breath. I refused and ran to hide, to deny the reality of the situation. I was a coward, and I neglected her. Father would hate to see me now, a sad, miserable, pathetic man who failed at everything. Tears swelled in my eyes, now falling freely.
"Tears and apologies won't do you any good, dear; just open the door and let me come inside, and we can fix it together. It's not too late to fix it."
I looked up at the creature, but was met with my mother's face, her warm smile comforting me. She is right; I can still fix this. I can still be a good son, be a husband again, and be a great father.
"Let me in so I can help you carry this burden you put on yourself. You can fix everything and make it right again."
"I can do everything right again." I thought.
I walked towards the door, and the house shook and groaned. A picture frame fell off the wall. It was a picture of my mother and me taken at my high school graduation. I remember that day.
The hot gymnasium air was filled with perfume spray from proud mothers and was salty from the sweat of fathers. The noise of flash photography and families laughing and joy was deafening. Amidst the chaos, I spotted my mother, waiting for me, smiling and happy. Her brown eyes glistened with joy and love. I ran to embrace her.
"Bodie. You did it.I know you wish dad was here, but you can't change that. I am so proud that you continue living and doing your best! Your dad would be so proud of you.”
Those words rang as a wake-up call from this thing's manipulation held on me. I wiped my tears and looked at my mother, but her eyes weren't brown; it was a dirty yellow sclera with a dark black iris that stared back at me, hungrily. I stopped short of the door.
"No, I cannot let you in; you died, and I can't change that reality. I must embrace reality and stop denying it. Yes, I fail as a son, father, and husband, but I can still change one. I just need to keep living; I still have my daughter."
The Thing grew angry and began to scream, slowly shifting and changing its shape and form, thrashing at the window and door with claws, hoofs, and fangs.
"LET ME IN! LET ME IN! LET ME IN!" The Thing screamed as it clashed and crashed around the outside of the house.
The house groaned and began to move, slowly rocking gently away from the thing and leaving the dark mountains, black trees, and red thunderstorms behind. The thing bellowed angrily, sprinting after us like a predator losing its prey. I made my way upstairs, tired from everything, and fell asleep once again to the slow rocking of the house moving.
"I love you, Mom," I said and finally drifted to sleep.