The House on Willow Lane

My family arrived at 17 Willow Lane in the autumn of 1997. I was thirteen. It was the first house we had ever owned with an upstairs, and we were all excited by the space. Yet, from our very first night, a deep unease settled over us. The rooms were large but felt perpetually cold, and you could never shake the sensation of being watched from the empty corners.

A month after we moved in, our home was broken into. I was unharmed, but the violation left me deeply shaken. Afterwards, our neighbor, an old man who had lived on the street for fifty years, paid us a visit. He told us that no family had stayed in the house for more than a few months in all the years he could recall. He said a shadow of misfortune seemed to follow anyone who tried to live there, a series of accidents and losses that began soon after they arrived.

We all felt the heavy silence in the house, a presence that made the walls feel thin. We did not stay much longer after that.