Dark House

The house was dark and abandoned—devoid of human life, save for this lone visitor whose purpose of visitation she herself had no clue about. Only the usual creepy-crawlies remained. Thick layers of dust covered surface after surface, as if shielding away memories of the past.

It was really dark. Empty. Eerie. Scary. She advanced slowly, clutching every bit of caution she possessed.

A framed photograph had been left atop the line of shelves, she noticed. The frame was made of good quality wood, but it had been neglected for years. She picked up the object and held it in her arms.

Oh.

A tear landed on the dusty glass shielding the photo. Too many memories came back, flooding. They were both bad and good. She spread the teardrop with her thumb to see the image clearly.

It was a picture of a family. A father. A mother. A daughter and a son. All smiling happily, all joyous and carefree.

…And yet they all left her. She was alone now.

She closed her eyes for a moment, and all of a sudden the unlit house shone bright with the joys of the past—of jelly sandwiches, crayons, Mommy’s reprimands, commendations, chores, multiplication tables, procrastination sessions. Those were the good old days. Days when you had no care in the world. Simple days now gone by.

Another drop. She missed those days oh so terribly.

She opened her eyes again, and all she saw was darkness.

She sighed. The house had once been a home.