Where I Grew Up

I don't think I have much time left. They're close. I can smell them, their rotten, peeling flesh and putrid, stale breath, like something crawled down their throats and died. Which isn't too far from the truth, I suppose. But I should be safe here, for now, huddled in the comforting darkness of what once was probably a nice suburban neighborhood, the kind of block where everyone knew one another and young children played safely in the street.

In the fading twilight, the house had looked fairly intact, a white two-story building halfway down a hill with a tall tree growing in the front yard, an oak, maybe. I quickly snuck around the perimeter, jumping over the slatted, wooden fence rather than risk the loud creaking I was sure would emanate from the copper-colored gate hinges. My cursory inspection yielded no broken windows or shattered doors, which I took as a good sign. I made my way back around to the front, careful not to disturb what was left of the rose bushes that once lined the south side of the house. Respect for the dead, maybe?

I wrapped my hand in a once-fluffy baby blue towel I scavenged from a nearby mall and jabbed at a narrow pane of etched glass to the right of the front door, cracking it until it gave way with a slight tinkling sound, like a glass wind chime in a stiff breeze. I scraped my arm on a jagged shard when I reached inside to unlock the door, but it's just a scratch. I can barely see it in the dim light of my laptop monitor.

The door, its red paint long faded, groaned when I pushed it open, like someone in pain from being forced to stretch muscles they had long forgotten about. The last slivers of sunlight glinted off a gold-colored doorknocker as I stepped inside the musty house, the faint outline of a surname barely noticeable in the gloom. "Sorry about the window," I muttered to the ghosts of the family that once lived here, as I closed the door behind me. I turned the deadbolt and it made a satisfying thunk, locking me inside a stranger’s home.

Not wanting to risk alerting anything to my presence, I left my flashlight in my backpack, choosing instead to allow my eyes to adjust to the gathering darkness. After a few minutes of standing with my back to the door I began to make out shapes in the open room to my left, some chairs, a sofa, a tall bookcase. To my right was an ominous stairway leading to the second floor.

I walked forward, where I saw a rectangular wooden table surrounded by matching chairs, overturned, as if someone had left in a hurry. I flicked the light switch on the wall next to me, but nothing happened. Not that I was actually expecting anything. Most cities stopped generating power years ago, which is why I steered clear of the large refrigerator that stood ominously against the wall. There was no telling what had gone rotten in there in the aftermath.

I walked back to the front door and paused for a moment, looking up into the gaping nothing of the staircase. Convinced that I was alone in this house, I pulled out my flashlight and flicked it on, the bright halogen beam giving me little comfort in the emptiness. The steps, I noticed, were carpeted in the same vibrant green as the living room, now covered with a thick coating of grey dust. I started up the stairs, each creak magnified by the utter silence that surrounded me.

Family pictures hung on the wall to my right. I tried not to look. I didn’t particularly want to know whose home I was invading, but the glow of the flashlight cast garish shadows as I trudged up the stairs, eerily illuminating at least three generations of dead people. A large family portrait greeted me at the top of the stairs. Parents, grandparents and countless grandchildren stared at me with tired, vacant eyes and fake, toothy smiles, the kind you get when you’ve been posing all day and just want to be done with it. Nice-looking family, I thought.

The top floor consists of three bedrooms, each with clothes and books haphazardly strewn about, abandoned, and the corner office I’ve claimed as my own. It’s the room least cluttered by reminders, save for the Pittsburgh Steelers memorabilia placed with obvious care on the desk and bookshelves.

I hear movement outside, vague scratches at the door and windows, and I silently pray they haven’t picked up my scent. Then I hear pounding on the door and I remember the scratch on my arm. They’ve found me.