I have always admired the house at the end of Cashmere Lane. I didn’t like the house for average reasons, like if it had a nice paint job or a well-kept yard; I liked the house because of its secrets. A lot of the people in this town tell stories about the evils inside of the house, but I don’t believe them. Even my own mother, when I was her only responsibility, used to warn me about the house when I was much younger. I used to listen to her warnings, but now I’m old enough to have my own opinions. I like how run-down the house is and how most of the windows are broken. I often watch the ravens fly in and never come out. I wonder where they go, and what they see. Sometimes, I like to imagine the people who used to live in the house—the family that is now dead and long gone. I fantasize about the children playing in the front yard and about their mother calling them inside to wash their hands to set the table for dinner. I like to pretend that I know these people as if they are distant family members that I met long ago. Familiar, but far away. 

I’ve even started to see the family in my dreams. They are the nicest people I know. I especially like talking to the daughter. Her name is Eloise and she grew up in the 1980s. Eloise’s favorite things to do are listen to music and paint. When I tell Eloise about my plans to skip school the next day and how miserable my life can be, she’s the only one who truly listens. I know this all sounds a bit crazy, but there is just something that feels so real about these dreams. I wake up to my boring life with the feeling of Eloise’s hand still lingering on mine. One time, the taste of her mother’s oatmeal raisin cookies was still on my tongue when I woke up to my twin baby brothers crying. My parents are basically absent from my life. It’s not really their fault. They both just work a lot and have a lot on their plate with my four younger siblings. My parents’ lack of attention used to bother me, but now I like how no one notices how often I skip school to visit my favorite house. 

One day, I was sitting outside the house, the air cool and light on my skin. I looked up at the sky as it began to cloud over. Suddenly, I felt an energy pulling me inside the house. It was a feeling I’d never felt before. The house seemed to be calling me, pulling me into the deepest parts of the estate, begging me to venture far inside. I tried to resist the sensation, as I had never actually been inside the house before, but after a few moments I started to hear the voices getting louder and more desperate. Someone inside needed help, and it was my job to save them. I didn’t feel as though I had a choice and my body knew it had to go inside without asking my brain for permission. I stood slowly, my legs shaking at first, but then rushing to the front door. The hinges of the door creaked with an intensity that spread through my veins. 

When I reached the inside of the house, I knew there was something off. The house I once adored felt so unwelcome and judgmental of me. I turned and noticed a seemingly endless staircase, an old radio and broken glass on the floor. There was a chill that seemed to envelop me. I tried to shake off this feeling since the house meant everything to me. I went into each room and got more and more scared as I walked further and further into the depths of the house. Something inside of me would not let me run out of the house, even though I began to realize deep down that I needed to escape. My interest in the house blinded me to the danger I was in. That was when I heard the crash. As I ran towards the front entrance of the house, the door slammed in my face, closing me in. Before I knew it, the panic set in. I let out a scream and just as I did the room went fuzzy and dark.