Empty Home

A sad little tale about a destroyed home that I wrote when I was in high-school.

Empty Home

 

Rotten walls and broken stone is all that surrounds me.

            In this place, time is at a standstill and nothing that was, is anymore. It is a broken down abandoned home on my property. Who knows who used to live inside, or when the walls gave way and collapsed upon themselves.

            As I walk up to the building, I don’t think much, except how sad and pathetic the structure looks. It has only half a roof; the other half collapsed inwards and the rest of the house followed suit. But if you are careful enough of the nails, you can climb up to the part of the roof that is intact and sit under it in what used to be the attic. Sometimes I do that. On a cold, lonely autumn afternoon, I’ll climb that hill of broken planks and nails, and escape into my own little home.

            It is disturbing how the walls glare at you as they tell their tale. They look with accusing, unforgiving eyes. They have seen such old; today’s world must seem chaotic and rebellious.

            I feel uneasy, sitting in those boxed-in collapsed walls. Still, I never truly feel alone. It’s as if the walls can actually speak to me; maybe that’s where this uneasy feeling comes from.

The attic was not the only place you could go though; there was a little more to this place than just an attic. There was also the basement. The cement foundation must have kept the basement together, even as the rest of the building collapsed. There was a small door on the side of the house, down in those cement walls. In the springtime when the snow melted, the whole basement would be filled with water. And it makes me wonder �" was it like that before, when people still lived here?

            It was spring the first time I laid my eyes on this secret place, and it was indeed full of water. I came there often to just stare into the halls, full of liquid. I was unable to get into that place then, like it was forbidden.

            But when the summer came and the water evaporated or seeped into the earth, the gates to this unknown kingdom opened up to me and I was free to explore. I walked into the dirt-coated floors. I wondered if there had ever been floors or if it had always been dirt; I never dug to find out.

            At the end of the hall there was a bedroom, a bed overturned against the wall, bedsprings popping out, and random furniture in piles. The halls to the left and right were destroyed. I wondered what had happened. Why did the building give in to its old age, and why was there such a musty old bedroom down here where every year it was guaranteed to flood.

            That basement scared me terribly.

            I felt like I was being watched, like there was something forlorn and forsaken there, staring at me, whispering into my ears the pain and sorrow of long, lonely years having passed.

            These walls are lonely and without a friend. Maybe that’s why I was so uneasy, because they needed someone there, wanted someone to stay. And maybe that someone was me.

            Maybe one day as a grown man I will ease the walls’ pain and return to whisper my hellos once more.

Reviews

[zainul]

You are a real friend of the old house.
You have shared with the house and its components much of your feelings in clear conscience and the friendship was mutual.
You have drawn a vivid picture.
Your age at the time of writing the story is meaningless to me.
It is a wonderful work.

[Joshua W. Harris]

Thank you so much!
I am very glad that you enjoyed the piece. =]

[zainul]

You are welcome.
You have really written one that is worth enjoying.

[Craig2591]

A very nice story. I would love to sit in that attic on a cold Autumn day and think about the house's history. It's wonderful that you see more than just an old broken down house! You experience it!

Well written. I saw no obvious errors. Nothing I would change.