#13 Shadow House

Nestled in the countryside hidden by the trees,

Shadows fill a lonely house not a man has seen. 

It was a local legend. Everyone knew the poem. We said it as a ghost story at flashlight lit sleepovers. Our parents used it as a warning against staying out late. Their parents skipped rope to the rhythm of its words. No one knew where it came from, but everyone had it etched in their bones. For me it had always felt like it was etched into my heart, embedded into my core.

Every one of my school notebooks had it scrawled into the margins. The words would be rearranged and upside down as if the different configurations would reveal some hidden meaning. Like I would find an answer to all the questions in my life. I clung to that poem believing that I would find everything I needed if I found the house nestled in the trees. Other children did the same for fun. For them it was a phase, but I searched obsessively for it well after they had stopped.

College had dulled to obsession to a quirky interest. The poem was still tucked into the edge of my notebooks, but distance made it easier to push it to the back of my mind. It turned into something to research in my spare time. Something to occupy an idle mind.

When I returned home from college my hometown felt different and the same. People and shops had aged and changed but nostalgia filled every inch of it. Meeting old friends and neighbors was filled with remember whens. 

“I remember when your stacks of books were bigger than you were tall.” The librarian said as she gave me a hug and congratulated me on finishing college.

“Do you remember when Daniel let a goose loose in the school gym?” My classmate said, who I only knew in passing, when we got to talking at the grocery store.

“Remember when you used to hunt through the woods for the shadow house?” My old friend said when we went to lunch and it felt like no years had passed at all.

For them the past seemed like something entirely separate from themselves, but I could feel it in every inch of the town. Everything was blanketed by things that happened years ago. To me it all felt like it had happened yesterday.

When I wasn’t catching up with all the people in town I was wandering around the country roads close to my parents house. I had just as many memories here as I did in the streets in town, maybe more. I searched the places that only seemed to have animals as residents. There were maps of the countryside tucked into the bottoms of my drawers in my old room at my parents house. They were labeled and annotated, recording all the ground I had covered while searching for the shadow house. I had went through every bit of land that I could, but I never found it.

I dug my old bike out of the shed, swiping off the worst of the dirt and cobwebs before airing up the tires. It felt nice to have the breeze on my face again. My legs burned a bit as I pedaled. Four years away from riding had taken away all the muscle that I used to have.

I turned down roads at random knowing I would find my way back eventually. It was nice to have hours at a time that I didn’t have to think after every waking second of the last four years being filled with studying. The nature around me filled my brain replacing every other thought. 

I slowed my bike as I came up to a gap in the foliage. I rested my foot on the ground as I looked down a dirt road line thickly with trees. I was sure this hadn’t been here before I left for college. My heart sped up in my chest and I could have sworn that I felt like I was being pulled down the road. Like something was waiting for me at the end.

I glanced around waiting for someone to stop me or for a no trespassing sign, but I saw nothing. I looked back down the road stirring up my unbridled childish courage. I had never paid attention to boundaries and rules when I hunted through the woods as a child and there was no point in changing that now. The bike creaked and the tires clicked as I pushed down on the pedals. My bike was the only sound. The trees seemed to block out everything else. It felt like I had been transported into a different world. The sun still shone through the branches, but leaves in them were perfectly still.

My knuckles were white on my handlebars. A giddy energy was pumping through my veins. Anticipation made me pedal faster. I rode until the opening to the road was out of sight and then I rode further until it opened again on the other side. The trees broke away and the road curved. My ears popped and suddenly there was the sound of birds and wind. 

I came around the bend and there was a house.

I stopped and waited looking for any sign that it was lived in. It looked well kept though it had to be old. The front steps didn’t sag and there didn’t seem to be any missing pieces of roof. Despite its good condition it felt untouched. Places that have been empty for years feel like they have absorbed whatever is around them. They become part of the landscape like a tree or a creak. This house had that feeling.

It was white like so many old farm houses were. It reminded me of the painting with the old couple and the pitch fork. Its porch wrapped around half the house, and I searched its windows for any shadows or shapes. Its edges had the frills of a toned down Victorian house, the result of a farmer who admired those houses, but was too practical or poor to build one fully.

I stepped off my bike and followed the road up to the front steps. I felt like I couldn't breath and I was breathing too fast at the same time. The poem was running through my head over and over as I pushed down my kickstand. The stairs didn’t even creak as I walked up onto the porch. I held my breath as I knocked on the door, the rap of my knuckles feeling too quiet. 

I let out a breath when no one answered. I peered through the windows that only had the smallest layer of dust, shielding my eyes and leaning into the glass to block out the sun. Beams of light streamed through the windows onto cloth covered furniture. The house was in a state of waiting. 

I felt exposed as I stepped away from the window and looked to the door, as if the house was watching my every move. As if I was what it was waiting for. A chill ran over me despite the heat. I walked to the door and stared at the handle taking in the darkness of the metal and the white wash of the frame. 

I knew in my heart that this was what I had been searching for, pouring over maps and rearranging letters and words in the poem. Standing at the front door I realized that I never thought I would actually find it. I had never imagined stepping through the entrance, and I wondered if there was a reason that no one had ever seen it. Because no one who saw it had ever returned.

My chest tightened as indecision consumed my mind. I thought of the things that could happen if I stepped inside and none of them were pleasant. When I thought about stepping away though…. Thought about leaving the house behind without even trying, that was worse than anything I could have imagined that laid beyond.  

I drew in a shaky breath and kept taking in lungfuls of air until my breaths were even. I steeled myself thinking of all the time and effort I had put into finding this place and took hold of the door knob. I turned it with a sweaty hand and pulled.

The door did not move. 

I pulled harder, but it still wouldn’t open. 

My heart fell. It was as if I was unworthy to enter. As if all of my work wasn’t enough. My eyes burned. I couldn’t bring myself to pull my hand away. Maybe if I held on long enough the moment would come.

The air became cool like I was standing in the shade. A hand settled on top of mine, solid on the edges, but I could see my own hand through the center. I held my breath. 

“This place is not meant for you.” The voice was many whispers at once. Voices piled on top of each other, singular and dissonant.The shadow pulled my hand from the door and cradled it between its own.

I turned to it slowly terrified and exhilarated. The shadow seemed to be a woman with her hair down, but there was only an outline and no features. I could see the railing of the porch through its center, darkened like looking through a tinted glass cup. 

I had no way of knowing by looking at it, but the shadow didn’t seem like it was going to hurt me. Its hands were gentle on mine, solid by touch if not sight. It seemed to be watching me, waiting for me.

The tears spilled over. “Why?”

The shadows head tilted and it rested a hand on my cheek. “This house does not belong to the same world as you, and hopefully it never will.” 

I wanted to throw a fit. Have a tantrum. Stop my feet and yell that this was mine. This wasn’t fair. Age, however, gave me enough wisdom to know that none of that was true no matter how much I wished it was. Sadness and loss were welling up inside me. I looked back at the house. 

“Can I stay for a little while longer?”

“Do not stay long child and do not enter the house. This is a place that you must leave.”

The shadow squeezed my hand and stepped away fading into nothing. I drew in shaky breaths until they evened out then went to every window and took in every detail that I could. I went off the porch and rounded the house. Taking photos felt like a violation of privacy, so I tried to memorize the details on the roof and railings. I walked around the grounds and looked at all the plants and trees.

Slowly the ache in my heart ebbed to something manageable, but didn’t disappear completely. It never would, I knew that. I pushed up my kickstand and walked my bike to the end of the trees. I turned to the house again for one last look. The shadow stood alone on the porch. It waved to me, a final goodbye.

I pressed on the pedals, my heart aching and happy. I rode through the tunnel of trees that muffled every sound, but the clicking of my bike. I smiled to myself as the poem ran through my head again, but some of the words had changed. A childish wish that I never thought would come true.

Nestled in the countryside hidden by the trees

Shadows fill a lonely house just one girl has seen.