Amy
It was the last house of the town still standing and its history was rich. Or it would be if there was anyone around who remembered it. It was a miracle that we’d found it at all. But now, standing here in front of it, I was beginning to think it was less like a miracle and more like a magnet. The house wanted to be found.
Found by me.
There was one stair leading into the house, and I took it without looking to see if Luke was still behind me. Dust poofed as I slowly entered the house. It floated through the air and seemed to gleam in the beams of sunlight spilling through the holes in the roof.
I was in the middle of the room when things around me started to shift and settle, a response to my presence. The silence was deafening, alive, and achingly familiar. A thread of memory flashed across my vision, but the moment I tried to follow it pain split my skull.
I squeezed my eyes shut and clutched the sides of my head as the pain turned to screaming. I vaguely heard Luke call out from somewhere behind me, but his voice was quickly drowned out by another.
“Welcome home.”
It echoed through every fiber of my being, and some part of me knew that I’d heard the voice before. Before I could make sense of it, though, the pain and screaming gave way and blackness came, unbidden, to take me away.
Thanks for reading! This is the longer version of my contribution to the most recent Fifties by the Fire, a writing challenge hosted by Justin Deming here on Substack.
Make sure to check back next week for part 2 of this story! It’s a good one!
Cool start! Old house stuff gets me every time.
Keep your readers "hanging", Claire!