The House

The house wasn’t a home to any human. Anyone who’d ever been brave enough to venture into those woods knew that much, at least. But that wasn’t many people. The woods were pitch black in parts, and somehow seemed darker half of the time. No road led straight, and even the most accomplished trackers who’d tried to investigate the house came out of the woods days later, disoriented and battered, with no idea where they had been. It seemed the only way to find the house was by accident. Those who’d seen it were children, or teenagers, or sleepwalkers, or those so sad they’d simply wandered into the trees. The house called to them, and they answered. And sometimes, they came back.

I was none of these. Still, I know the house’s call.

I heard it first the night my father died. I lay awake on the floor of my mother’s room. She’d finally fallen asleep, and I waited to make sure that she didn’t wake up alone. I had heard her tears too much to bear already that day. Then, eyes closed, I saw the house. Vividly, as though fairies had painted its walls on the insides of my eyelids. I saw the thatched roof, the shoddy wooden door, the dusty glass window panes. I saw the strange flowers lining it, unlike any that grew anywhere in the village. They seemed…impossibly colorless, as though the soul had been squeezed out of them by the roots, but they still lived. I saw the cracked walls, the candlelight flickering inside. Every frightened child who’d sobbed their terrifying adventure to their parents when they returned from seeing the house had described just such an image. Was it possible I was imagining it? Highly plausible, I figured. But I didn’t have that type of visualization. I could picture shapes and colors; this was a detailed portrait. I knew at that moment that, sometime or another, I would have to find the house.

I managed to put off searching for the house for a full year, but the anniversary of my father’s death led me back to it. I had the vision more and more, until it haunted my sight every time I closed my eyes. Something needed to happen there, and I needed to go and find it. If I died, that seemed fated at this point. If I lived…well, I’d get the image out of my head. I hoped.

And that brought me here, standing before you.

I didn’t pack much. No one who found the house ever had, and those who came back seemed untouched. Whatever I brought wouldn’t make a difference whether I came back or not. Still, to be safe, I packed a small morsel of food and a waterskin, my father’s old pocket knife, and my notebook. If I ended up stuck there forever, it might be nicer to have something to do.

I told my mother I was walking to the river.

I was never a strong liar, nor did I like to lie, but this was not exactly untrue. The river was on the way to the woods, after all. I was walking there. And more.

The woods were as dark as everyone had always said. Four steps in, if I spun around with my eyes closed, I might have lost track of where I came from. The trees wove themselves thick around me, as though I were a leaf in one of my mother’s baskets, being woven in between the reeds. I felt my knees begin to shake and my heart to pound quicker than was healthy, but I knew this was going to happen, one way or another. It wasn’t a choice. I had never believed in fate, but it seemed to me now that fate and free will were basically the same thing. The only difference was your perspective on your role in it.

I took no path, but somehow I knew the way anyhow. The trees seemed to block every direction but one at all times, as though guiding me with their roots to the center of them. I stepped carefully between them, careful not to trudge on the roots, as though afraid the trees might retaliate if I did. For all I knew, they might.

I came to the house quicker than I thought I would. It felt like a couple of hours to me, but I realized, as I stepped into the clearing, my eyes falling on the stepping stones leading to the door, that I had no idea how much time had passed outside of the woods. Very little sunlight reached this clearing, and that which did did not seem to move, but always came from the same point—above. Who knew what time was in this place?

You certainly don’t seem to know.

The house looked exactly like it had in my vision. Thatched roof, dusty windows, soulless flowers. Standing outside, I bent to touch one of the petals of an empty pansy. As my finger brushed it, it moved like the flowers in the village did, but I felt nothing between my fingertips. What was this place? The door swung open easily, as though used frequently. The thought frightened me, but I inhaled deeply, then stepped inside.

The room behind the door reminded me strongly of my elderly neighbor’s living room–open, dusty, and bland. Almost no furniture decked the room, from window to wall, save for two wooden chairs in the center of the room, both facing each other. This was the choice, wasn’t it? To sit or not? And if to sit, in which chair?

I stepped forward, slowly, trying to prevent my feet from making any noise against the floor beneath, hoping to get a closer look at the chairs. On closer inspection, the one on the right was much older, dustier, and looked fragile, as though it might break if someone stood on it. The left one looked newer, though not by any means new. I could see traces of polish on its legs, and fewer scratches adorned its back. I traced my finger along the back of it. No dust.

I sat down.

The space around me faded, and I found myself facing…you. You were the strangest thing I had ever seen. You seemed to be a person, but every time I tried to pick out any detail about you–the color of your hair, the shape of your nose–it faded from my mind instantly. I know you smiled at me, though I can’t say for certain that you had a mouth to smile with.

“You found me,” you said, sounding oddly cheerful, almost childishly so.

“It wasn’t hard,” I replied, “weren’t you guiding me here?” Now you laughed.

“No,” you said, “I can’t do that. But you can only find me if you need to. Need to, but don’t want to.”

“Why?” I asked, “what are you?”

The smile faded from your face. If I could claim that you cried then, I would, but I can’t be sure.

“Everything, and nothing,” you said, “the end, and the beginning. Time and its absence. Death, and birth. Death isn’t the opposite of life you know, it’s the opposite of birth. The opposite of life is nothing. Nonexistence. But I’m not that. And if you found me, it means that you need everything, and nothing.”

“You don’t make any sense.”

“You’re lost,” you told me, firmly, “in yourself. I’m here to pull you out again. To give you…a map, I suppose. That’s how you’ll view it. Close your eyes.”

“I have more questions.”

“I know. Close your eyes.”

The flowers outside of the house were the most beautiful shade of blue I had ever seen.