Pillsbury Street

we walk down the street. the blacktop road we walk is still steaming from the afternoon heat. warming our lungs. sunset reflects off the popped plaster of tan neighborhood houses. the boys’ faces are pale. freckled. lack definition. we’re in our summer uniforms of white tees and shorts that match the houses. my baby brother's hand clutches mine. he’s barefoot and his fat feet are hot. watch to the end.

night rises as the temperature dips. our parents are putting out lawn chairs next to the coolers filled with water and beer. colorful, worn blankets replace the green grass lawns. grilled meat smell turns hazy in their quantity. they’re early. passing out firecrackers and sparklers before the sun passes away. they’re passing out fruit in slices and melting popsicles. they’re not paying attention to us. my baby brother asks for a sweet pop to hold in his already sticky hands. the hand he holds cringes at the notion of more slick tracing its ridges. watch to the end.

besides my brother’s whines, it’s a silent march. the boys’ faces are sweaty. leaky. slick drops turn their curly hair crispy. the sun dies behind the houses in silent denotation. there’s an empty house a little past midway on the street. it’s the only empty house on the street. its grass is still green. ivy still grows slowly over the plaster and on the fountain and the angel statues. we’ve pushed ourselves to this dare. to knock and see inside the empty house. my baby brother’s clutch turns to a grip on my hand. watch to the end.

my hand becomes stickier. my baby brother points to the angels and concludes they don't want to stay still. there’s no reason to ask why. he’s too small for descriptions. the last of the dead sun’s light has left the popped plaster. the boys’ faces’ have stopped moving to their will. leaky. it’s getting chilly. firecrackers are making little eruptions. it’s quiet. night sky falls heavy. my baby brother stopped moving to stare at the statues. watch to the end.

the boys march forward. their footsteps make firecracker eruptions. the meat smells rawer. collected sugary fruit syrup reigns now. my baby brother tugs to stay still but the boys are already knocking on the door. my sticky slippery hand slips out of his chubby fist so my feet can join their march. my baby brother whimpers. watch to the end.

over crispy, living grass we march. meat smells rotten. my baby brother whimpers something about the angels moving away. he’s too small for honest descriptions. the boys’ faces’ look paler. freckles look like syrup drops. leaky. the night sky becomes hazy with sparklers. the concrete step to the doorway is cracked. ivy roots slip out. my hand is still sticky. my baby brother cries. watch to the end.

together, us older kids stand as the door creaks open. no knock. the door opens to teeth. molars and fangs and jagged shark teeth and needle worm teeth. this is the raw rot. slimy and messy. the boys’ faces are white now. explosions reflect the white teeth. night sky no longer dark. my lungs are no longer warm. my baby brother cries. he’s crying about angles. watch to the end.

there’s rows and rows sinking deeper into the dark depth of the house. smaller and smaller with no light for shadows. no ghost teeth. all real bone. the boys' faces are smooth and wet looking. slick. they’re pale enough to be mistaken for mirrors. my reflection refuses to appear, refuses to compete with the exploding sky. it’s chillier than it’s supposed to be. my baby brother is crying about angels. they’re gone. watch to the end.

from the dark depths of the house a burnt orange flame is looming. still no shadow. still no heat. the teeth look hungry. salivating. all real bone. the angels are gone. their reflections don’t show on the boy’s mirror bodies. explosions are dimming. it’s so bright inside the only empty house. the parents are still not paying attention. night sky has become wet and sticky. my baby brother is crying about angels. watch to the end.

the boys’ faces are gooey. lack definition. their summer uniforms are dirty. they’ve lost their shoes. the burnt orange flame is looming against the doorframe. rows and rows of sinking molars and fangs and jagged shark teeth and needle worm teeth glow soft yellow. almost inviting us older kids inside. my feet feel slick against the concrete. salvia makes a hissing sound as it boils. the teeth look hungry. my baby brother is crying about angels. watch to the end.

the boys’ faces are sliding off delicate bones. lack definition. leaky. they’re fat bare feet look too cold for summer. pale with deep blue veins on top. the flame erupts. blackening bones that aren’t it’s own. the empty house’s teeth are pearly white. rows and rows of molars hungry, fangs salivating, jagged shark teeth starving, needle worm teeth gluttonous. burnt orange flame licks freckled skin right off the bone. my baby brother is crying about angels. watch to the end.

the boys’ faces are sliding off delicate bones. remaining skin pale with deep blue veins on top. the teeth are hungry, salivating, starving, gluttonous. flame licks freckled skin off the bone. salvia makes a hissing sound as it boils. my face is cold. my baby brother is crying about angels. they’re gone. watch to the end.

the boys’ faces are sliding off delicate bones. skin pale and blue. teeth hungry, salivating, starving, gluttonous. flame licks freckled skin off. my baby brother is crying about angels. they’re gone. we’re gone. watch to the end. watch to the end. watch to the end. watch to the end.

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“Watch to the end,” I whimper whistle through a dry throat. I've been sleeping with my mouth open again. My brother mumbles from across the room, “Monster house?” He’s used to screaming, but the whimpers must have startled him out of sleep.

“Go back to sleep,” I tell him, remembering to breathe again.

“It’s just a dream.”

“Then go back to sleep.”

He sits up in bed and rubs his eyes with his palms. Guessing by the sweat formed on mine, I assume his palms are sticky too. My skin crawls thinking about him rubbing his eyes with sweaty hands. With a croaky voice he says, “You’re awake, so I’m awake.”

“That’s stupid.”

“Then go back to sleep.”

“I have to pee first.”

“Gross,” He says, laying back down and turning his back to me. Shifting stiff legs over the bed, I go to the bathroom to stare at my reflection. Sickly yellow skin, dark circles, and tear streaks wrap my cheeks. I look more and more like our mother.

We miss Mother. We really do. On good days she laughed like wind chimes and baked bread and danced instead of walked in the house. Father adored her, even on the bad days where she would cry and stay in bed with her pointer finger and thumb pinching the bridge of her nose. Father adores her always. Even when the bad days became more frequent to the point where she had to go. My brother asked him if she had to return to the monster house. Father shook his head and wouldn’t talk about it to us. Sometimes, late, we hear him talking to someone who doesn’t reply.

Once my brother and I dared to creep close to the closed kitchen door to hear him. He said to the silent voice, “Was it the right thing? Was it? Is she happier? I’m not. The children aren’t. But is she?”

Father kept quiet, listening to a reply. My brother whispered to me, “Is he on the phone?”

“If he was, why wouldn’t he be in his room?”

He shrugged and before he could say anything else, Father said, “If you say so, that’s good enough for me I guess. You know best.”

We heard his footsteps and ran back to bed.

I turn on the shower to the highest heat to watch how the fog turns my reflection into a ghost. It makes me and my nightmares less real that way. On a bad day, Mother said that ghosts don’t exist because monsters already do. I don’t think she’s right. My brother and I are yet to meet any monsters. We think Father knows ghosts. He wouldn’t say. Mother told my brother and I about living in a monster house. She said to always watch to the end, even if it could kill you. Watch so you can’t make up a lie for an ending. She knows because she didn’t. Her bad days are days her brain makes bad answers for how her monster house burned, she explained to us. I don’t know how honest that was. I don’t know when her horrors became mine.

Every house I enter, I check the door frames for teeth. Avoid fireplaces. If there’s ivy or angel statues, I refuse to go in. Father tries to pull me in sometimes and I tell him monster house. He sighs and let go. He tells me it’ll be okay. That he just needs to run in. He’ll be right back. My brother and I forget how to breathe until we see him outside safely. Then we drive back home and don’t talk about it. I know my brother and I are wondering when and where Father wouldn’t come back outside. He’s yet to enter an empty house.

Carefully, I step into the shower, water pools at the bottom where I sink my body to. Holding my knees, I remind myself this isn’t a monster house. My mother grew up in a monster house, not I. I already have her silly dreams. I already look like her. I am not my mother. I am not my mother. I watch to the end.