The House at October's End

The Road wasn't there in September,
where leaves have gone copper,
and rain polished the pavement.

Only a break in the forest,
where a bonfire burns,
over the hill.

You follow it.

Mist gathers in the fields.
Branches tap the roof of the sky.
Somewhere, a dog barks once

and thinks better of it.

You pass farms,
wrought fences,
orchards, almost bare.

You pass
a weathered sign:

All what you remember.

Just beyond, a house—it wasn't there last month.

Porch lanterns sway.

The door opens.

Inside, a pot-bellied stove, stoked and bright.

Upstairs, you hear...Music.

You follow it

down a long hallway.

Across floorboards that remember
every footstep ever carried.

At the end,
a phonograph turns, slow
beside a closed door.

The music ends.

Then:

A small voice on the other side of the door:

“Come in.”

Inside, a little girl
sits in a rocking chair.

She smiles toward the window, pointing beyond the glass.

“The tree.”

You look.

Across the field stands
an enormous old tree,
its branches reaching skyward.

“The key to begin again.”

Something glints beside her chair.

A small brass key

hangs from a faded blue ribbon.

“This key?”

She looks down.

“It remembers.”

She smiles

“What does it remember?”

“Where it belongs.”

She points toward the tree.

“Underneath.”

“But you have it.”

Her face, puzzled.

“No.”

You look again.

The ribbon still hangs,

but no key.

“What does the key open?”

She stops rocking.

“The door you came through.”

Behind you,

The door is closed.

“Can I leave?”

She nods.

“When the wolf sleeps.”

“The wolf???”

“The one that wakes
when October ends.”

Something moves beyond the window.

Could be
a branch,
a shadow,

or something watching.

“What happens then?”

The girl rocks again—slow, creaky.

“Everyone floats.”

The house shivers: walls become translucent.

Then transparent.

The floor disappears;

ceiling opens into stars.

You look down.

No feet, hands, nothing.

You are floating
inside the last colored country
before Winter.

The girl’s rocking chair turns in the empty air.

“What is this place?”

She smiles.

“The bell will ring.”

Then the house simply forgets itself.

The long hall becomes rain; rain becomes leaves; leaves become darkness.

Your hands and coat return, feet touching the ground.

Something strikes your palm.

You close your fingers around it.

The Key.

You look toward the girl.

She is gone.

You stand at the

end of the road—

October’s End.

Your watch reads 11:59 PM

October 31.

The last bell rings.

The road is still there,

But the house?

No more.

Beyond the trees, November waits,

graying, already carrying Winter.

You look down:

Still in your hand,

the key,

Standing in the field,

the tree.

Your mind stills, understanding:

The key, it opens nothing.

It simply remembers.

The tree was never
where it belonged.

But where you belonged.

The place where October
returns what was borrowed.

You look where the house stood. But,

The house is gone.

Then,

movement

at the field’s edge.

Same from the window.

More.

Closer.

The field goes still.

Somewhere in the dark,

You hear,

Neither a distant sound

nor memory, but

A full-throated howl,

Deep.

Chilling.

Something
finally awakens
to hunt again.

Behind you,
the leaves close over the road.

Your hand clutches tight,

but is empty.

You open it, looking up:

the sign,

Take what you remember.

Everyone floats.

You remember the girl was alone,

yet unafraid

of answers.

or ghosts,

Just enough memory
to smuggle beauty
across the border.

For one moment,
you smell woodsmoke.

The phonograph
plays somewhere far,

yet near.

Wind rises.

Leaves lift.

The road disappears.

And October,

lets you go.