Red Lines

A Story by ralraz

I know this isn't the greatest piece of writing, but it's a start. I do plan on revisiting it to make some changes and give it a good edit.

224 Elm South. It was their new home. It was going to be a new start. A fresh home, like a blank canvas, new stories and memories to make.

They were three. Alice, John, and their son Jacob. Two young parents, with a toddler son. Beautiful, a simple family.

Their new home stood 2 stories. More than enough room for the family of 3 but the space was comfort; extra space meant room to grow as a family, and as husband and wife, Alice and John couldn't be more hopeful.

The house was a dream to them. It was a new beginning, empty walls along the upstairs hallway to fill with new family photos. The white walls gave contrast to the black frames Alice hung. No one would be able to walk by without a glance,

they would feel a need to stop and appreciate the love and family shown through the photos. Smiles, through a newly wed couple to the milestones of a new born child. It would freeze within anyone passing by, passing along the sensation to smile. The frames really stood out against the ghost white walls. Evenly, exceptionally well painted, the walls loved to showcase art or frames.

Black and white, it was even and balanced, except for the red marks near the top of the stair case John had noticed only a week after the family had settled in. Jacob must have felt the need to explore his creative side, on the wall, with a red crayon. With patience he cleaned the scribbles, forgiving Jacob's actions. The child is dealing with the move, he thought, and never having these perfectly white walls in the old home to persuade his drawing seemed to be a reasonable excuse.

Two days later, red crayon was marked along the wall, from the top of the stair case, to the opening of Alice and John's room. The lines much thicker than Jacob's first mischievous art work.

John's expression weakened and saddened as he ran his eyes along the red lines towards his bedroom door. He once again, scrubbed with frustration, but with patience, and tried to rationalize his son's increasingly annoying doodles.

Once a month in their new home had gone by, and John had spent multiple occasions bent on his knees, cleaning red crayon, he had finally had enough.

He made his way to the front door, determined to solve the issue. Once he opened the door, he froze. His breath was taken from his lungs, as he noticed a package of red crayons unopened placed on his front step. He stared wide eyed for a moment and was shaken by the sound of his neighbors voice calling from across the street.

"Hey John! Sorry for the crayons, Bradley, my youngest used to bring them over for the little one who used to live there before you guys, and I guess he hasn't accepted that his little friend is gone now. I'll have another talk with him, no matter how many times I try to explain to him, he never seems to stop."

John smiled and nodded, masking the fear, the overwhelming fear. This was supposed to be a new home, without any worries. He never mentioned the idea to Alice. The possibility of having a ghost child scribbling red crayon along the wall seemed like an argument and headache he strongly wanted to avoid.

John didn't want this home to be another one to add to the list of "could have been" homes. The family had been through enough moves, this should be their last, this was their dream home, he didn't want to go through the process again.

Two months of frequent trips to the market for multi purpose cleaner convinced John to finally go to his wife with his suspicions. She was his soul mate, through all her faults and flaws, John never seen her in any dark light. She only radiated love and happiness, and exuded a calming and reassuring sensation with one smile. John knew when he would try to convince her, it would be a struggle.

One late afternoon he decided it was time, time to tell his wife the torment caused by the red crayon.

But panic set in, sweat beading on his forehead as soon as he reached the top of the stairs. Red crayon was drawn excessively from wall to wall along the hall. John had no doubt in his mind. The crayon scattered in thick confusing lines

reaching the bedroom. One straight red line drawn vertically on David and Alice's bedroom door,

with a slight smudge, or attempt of a curved line to the right of it, just as their latest son David used to do on his bedroom door in their first home before the accident.