The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky, its golden light stretching across the crumbling sidewalks and casting jagged shadows over the faded facades of the neighborhood. When I stepped out of the car, my small feet landed on the uneven concrete, and the world around me seemed to exhale a sigh of neglect. The house loomed ahead, a sagging silhouette against the horizon-our new home. I swallowed hard, trying to ignore the cold knot of unease twisting in my stomach. The paint clung to the siding of the house in jagged strips, curling away as though the house itself was trying to shed its skin. Dirt-streaked windows stared blankly back at me, their frames warped and weathered, while the porch railing leaned outward in surrender, one strong gust away from collapse.
A faint, musty smell drifted through the air, growing stronger as the breeze carried it from the open front door. It was the unmistakable scent of old wood and mildew, mingled with something else-something sour, like regret. I wrinkled my nose and shifted the weight of my backpack, its tattered strap digging into my shoulder. This was supposed to be a new beginning, but the house already felt like a reminder of everything we'd left behind.
Behind me, the car door slammed shut with a metallic groan, and my mother stumbled into view. Her steps were uneven, the click of her heels sharp and offbeat against the cracked pavement. A half-empty bottle dangled from her hand, catching the light and refracting it into fractured, shifting patterns on the ground. Her eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with dark shadows that seemed deeper in the amber glow of the sunset. "Home sweet home," she slurred, her voice thick with the hollow cheer she tried to muster. She waved the bottle toward the house in a mock toast, then took another swig. "Ain't she a beauty, huh?"
I didn't answer. I had learned a long time ago that silence was safer. Words could provoke, and I didn't want to give her a reason to lash out-not today. I adjusted my grip on my backpack and trudged toward the porch, the wooden steps creaking ominously underfoot. My gaze darted to the gaps between the planks, imagining the brittle boards giving way beneath me. Everything about the house seemed fragile, like it might crumble under the weight of our presence.
Inside, the house was even worse than it looked from the outside. The air was heavy with the damp, cloying scent of mildew, mingled with an undercurrent of something sour and indefinable. Each step I took made the floorboards groan underfoot, the sound echoing in the oppressive silence. Cobwebs clung to every corner, their delicate threads swaying slightly in the draft that seeped through the cracked windows. The wallpaper sagged and peeled in long, curling strips, revealing patches of stained plaster marred by water damage. My gaze snagged on a line of ants, their tiny bodies glinting as they marched in perfect formation along the baseboard, disappearing into a jagged crack in the wall.
"I think there's termites," I said quietly, the words almost swallowed by the suffocating air. It wasn't meant for her ears, just an observation spoken aloud to break the silence.
She snorted, her laugh sharp and humorless. "Termites? That's the least of our problems, kid." Her voice was raspy, weighed down by exhaustion or something deeper I couldn't name. She tipped her head back, clutching a half-empty bottle of something amber-colored. "You'd better get used to it. This is what we've got." She threw her arms out dramatically, nearly spilling her drink in the process. "Welcome to paradise."
Her bitterness stung more than I cared to admit, and my heart sank. The house was a wreck, but it was the tone of her voice, the resignation in it, that made my stomach churn. I glanced around again, taking in the sagging walls and warped ceiling. The whole place seemed to sigh under its own weight, as if the house itself was giving up. I imagined termites gnawing away at the beams, their relentless jaws chewing through what little remained of its strength. The thought made me shiver.
"Go pick a room," she said, waving me off with a languid flick of her wrist. "I need to..." Her words trailed off as she sank into a stained armchair that looked like it had been there longer than I'd been alive. The bottle clinked softly against the scuffed hardwood floor as she set it down, and within moments, her snores filled the air, loud and ragged.
I wandered through the house, my footsteps tentative and echoing in the hollow space. The kitchen was a disaster zone. Rusted appliances sat in a forlorn row, their surfaces pitted and scarred by years of neglect. The sink was filled with stagnant, brown-stained water, and the faint stench of decay clung to the counters. A solitary chair lay on its side in the corner, its legs splintered.
The living room wasn't much better. Old newspapers littered the floor, yellowed and brittle, their headlines shouting stories long forgotten. A couch with torn upholstery sat against one wall, its stuffing spilling out like guts from a wound. An empty birdcage hung from the ceiling, swaying slightly in a phantom breeze. It was a graveyard of forgotten things, a museum of abandonment.
Upstairs, the bedrooms were only marginally more bearable. The first room I looked into had a cracked window, the jagged edges of glass catching the weak light filtering through the grime. The ceiling sagged ominously, the plaster bubbled and discolored, threatening to give way at any moment. The second room was slightly better. The window was intact, and though the walls were bare except for a single faded poster curling at the edges, a faint breeze slipped through a gap in the wall. It carried the faintest scent of grass and distant flowers, making the space feel a little less suffocating.
I chose the second room and set my backpack down on the floor with a soft thud. The mattress on the rusted bed frame was lumpy and stained, but it would have to do. I sat on the edge of the bed and stared out the window at the house next door. The contrast was jarring. Their home was freshly painted, the white siding gleaming in the sunlight. The lawn was neatly trimmed, and vibrant flowers bloomed in terracotta pots on the porch. Music drifted through the open windows, a lively rhythm carried on waves of laughter and conversation.
My stomach twisted with envy. The people next door seemed so... alive. So full of color and joy, like a painting hanging next to a smudged charcoal sketch. I watched as a group of kids dashed through the yard, their laughter pealing like a chorus of bells. A woman appeared on the porch, her smile warm as she waved them inside. The sight made my chest ache. For a fleeting moment, I imagined myself among them, part of their world instead of stuck in this one, with its peeling wallpaper and sagging ceilings.
The slam of a door downstairs shattered the quiet, jolting me out of my thoughts. I crept to the top of the stairs and peered down. My mother was on the porch, her silhouette framed by the weak evening light. She was yelling at the neighbors, her voice rising and falling in angry bursts, though the words were muffled. Her arm swung wildly, the bottle in her hand glinting like a shard of broken glass. The neighbors froze, their laughter snuffed out like a candle, and the warmth of the moment dissolved into awkward tension.
I ducked back into the shadows, my heart pounding. Whatever fleeting connection I'd imagined was gone, severed before it could even begin.
"Keep it down over there!" she shouted, her words slurring together as if carried by the weight of too many drinks. "Some of us are trying to live in peace!"
The music didn't stop, not entirely, but the laughter tapered off into murmurs. Across the street, the woman on the porch-a silhouette against the faint glow of her house-turned her head slowly, her expression hidden in shadow. Without a word, she ushered the children inside, their giggles stifled by the closing door. The faint sound of a latch sliding into place was the final punctuation, leaving the night heavy with an awkward silence.
I felt my cheeks burn with a mix of anger and shame. Who did she think she was, yelling at them like that? They weren't doing any harm. The knot of emotions tightened in my chest, tangled and impossible to undo. I wanted to yell at her to stop, to leave the neighbors alone, but the words stuck in my throat. Instead, I turned away and slipped into my room, closing the door softly behind me.
The space felt colder than it had earlier, the faint scent of mildew hanging in the air. I leaned against the door, pressing my back to its rough surface as if it might anchor me. My heart thudded unevenly in my chest. Outside, the world carried on-muffled laughter returning, faint strains of music drifting through the thin walls.
The evening stretched long and slow, shadows deepening as the sun disappeared behind the horizon. The house seemed to sigh into the quiet, settling into itself like an old creature resigned to its solitude. I rummaged through a drawer, my fingers brushing past forgotten trinkets until I found an old flashlight. Its beam was weak and sputtering, but it was enough to illuminate the battered paperback I'd brought with me-a story I'd read so many times the edges of the pages curled like dried leaves.
Time slipped by in uneven increments. The bugs came out first, tiny specks darting into the flashlight's glow before vanishing into the darkness. Then came the roaches, bold and indifferent, skittering across the floor with an eerie precision. The faint rustling inside the walls was the worst-a sound just quiet enough to make me question if I'd really heard it, yet persistent enough to send shivers down my spine.
I drew my feet up onto the bed, hugging my knees tightly to my chest. The metal springs groaned beneath me, their protests swallowed by the thick silence. I tried to lose myself in the book, but the words blurred together as the sounds of the night pressed in. Each creak of the old house felt like a whisper, every scurry like a secret I wasn't meant to hear.
Sometime after midnight, the party next door finally wound down. The thrum of music and bursts of laughter that had seeped through the thin walls gave way to silence. It was a heavy kind of silence, the kind that made the faintest sounds-the ticking of the clock on the mantel, the rustling of leaves outside-seem deafening. The neighborhood was still, save for the occasional bark of a dog in the distance or the low rumble of a car passing far off on the main road.
I couldn't sleep. The air in my room felt heavy, pressing down on me as I lay on my lumpy mattress, staring at the cracked ceiling. Faint lines of moonlight spilled in through the window, casting jagged shadows on the walls that seemed to stretch and shift like living things. From downstairs came the sound of her snores, loud and irregular, a grating reminder that I wasn't alone in the house, though I might as well have been.
My stomach growled, the emptiness twisting into a dull ache, but I didn't dare go to the kitchen. The house was different at night-darker, colder, alive in a way that set my teeth on edge. The creaks of the old wooden floors seemed to echo longer, and the dark corners seemed to breathe. Sometimes, I thought I saw something move out of the corner of my eye, but when I turned, there was nothing there. I didn't want to risk finding out if there really was.
The days that followed slid into a grim routine, each one bleeding into the next like watercolors left out in the rain. I spent most of my time in my room, alternating between reading the same dog-eared book and staring out the window. The world outside was a collage of muted colors: gray skies, bare trees, and the pale yellow of the neighbor's porch light, which was always on, even during the day.
Their parties continued, loud and boisterous, the laughter and music a sharp contrast to the oppressive quiet of my house. Sometimes, I would press my ear against the windowpane just to catch snippets of conversation, pretending for a moment that I was part of their world. But I wasn't. I never had been.
Downstairs, my mother spent her days in her usual haze. The clinking of bottles and the sharp crack of ice cubes in her glass punctuated her tirades, which could erupt over the smallest things-a misplaced sock, a creased bill, or simply my presence. She hurled her words like knives, each one cutting deeper than the last. I learned quickly to stay out of her way, but even in my room, I wasn't safe. Her anger seeped through the walls, carried by the vibrations of her voice.
The house itself seemed to conspire with her, its groans and creaks a constant reminder of its age and neglect. Skittering sounds in the walls hinted at unseen creatures that made their home here too. At night, the noises became louder, more insistent, and I would pull the covers over my head, hoping to muffle the sounds, though it never worked.
Even during the day, the house felt alive, its air thick with a sense of foreboding. It wasn't just the house, though. It was everything-the gray skies, the hollow laughter from next door, the faint smell of mildew that seemed to linger no matter how many windows I opened. It all pressed down on me, wrapping itself around me like a heavy, damp blanket.
And yet, I stayed. What choice did I have?
One afternoon, the weight of the house became too much to bear. The walls seemed to close in on me, thick with the echoes of anger and broken promises. Desperate for a reprieve, I slipped outside and sank down on the porch steps. The sun pressed against my face, its warmth a fleeting comfort, as I gazed at the neighborhood. A group of kids played basketball in the street, their sneakers scuffing against the pavement. Their shouts and laughter floated on the breeze, a stark contrast to the silence I'd grown used to.
I watched them wistfully, my chest tightening with longing. I knew better than to think I could join them. To them, I was the strange girl from the house with peeling paint and the angry mother whose voice often carried through the thin walls. I was an outsider, and outsiders didn't get invitations.
"Hey," a voice startled me from my thoughts.
I looked up quickly, squinting against the sun, and saw a girl standing at the bottom of the steps. Her skin was dark, her curly black hair pulled back into a neat ponytail. She was about my age, maybe a little older, and she held a plate covered with a paper towel. Her tentative smile put me both on edge and at ease at the same time.
"Hi," I said cautiously, my voice barely audible.
"I'm Jasmine," she said, stepping closer and holding out the plate. "My mom made cookies. She said I should bring some over."
For a moment, I froze. The gesture was so foreign, so unexpectedly kind, that I didn't know how to respond. My eyes flicked toward the house behind me. My mother would yell if she saw me talking to someone from the neighborhood, let alone accepting food from them. But the aroma of freshly baked cookies drifted through the air, warm and inviting, and I couldn't resist.
"Thanks," I murmured, reaching out. My fingers brushed against the plate, and I could feel the warmth of the cookies through the paper towel. It was a small comfort, but it felt monumental.
Jasmine's smile grew, the corners of her eyes crinkling. "You're welcome. What's your name?"
"Emily," I said softly.
"Nice to meet you, Emily," she said, her voice steady but kind. She shifted on her feet, her gaze meeting mine without judgment. "If you ever want to hang out, you can come over to my house. My mom won't mind."
I blinked, her words taking a moment to sink in. No one had ever offered me something like that. My heart fluttered, caught between hope and uncertainty. All I could do was nod, clutching the plate as if it were a lifeline. Jasmine lingered for a moment, then waved and started back across the yard to her house.
For the first time since we'd moved in, the weight on my chest felt a little lighter. I stayed on the porch, the cookies now in my lap, and watched the neighborhood around me. The basketball game continued, dogs barked in the distance, and a breeze carried the scents of freshly cut grass and jasmine-like the girl's name. The house behind me was still falling apart, my mother was still the same volatile storm, but for the first time, I allowed myself to wonder if things could get better.
The next day, I found myself standing at the edge of the yard, staring at Jasmine's house. It was painted a soft white, the porch adorned with potted plants and a wind chime that tinkled faintly in the breeze. My stomach twisted with nerves, but I forced myself to take a step, then another, until I stood at her front door. My hand trembled as I raised it to knock.
The door opened almost immediately, and there she was. Jasmine's face lit up when she saw me. "Hey! Come in," she said, stepping aside without hesitation. Her enthusiasm felt like a beacon, drawing me in despite my fears.
The inside of the house was as welcoming as its exterior. The walls were painted in cheerful colors, adorned with family photos and framed drawings. A soft, lived-in warmth seemed to radiate from every corner. From the kitchen came the rich aroma of something baking-maybe a pie or casserole-and the sound of soft humming. Laughter echoed from another room, an unfamiliar but comforting sound.
"Mom!" Jasmine called, her voice carrying through the house. "This is Emily, from next door."
A woman appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She was tall, with the same warm eyes as Jasmine, and her smile was so genuine that I felt my shoulders relax for the first time in ages.
"Hi, Emily. It's nice to meet you," she said, her voice as welcoming as her smile. "I'm Mrs. Carter. Make yourself at home."
I nodded shyly, my eyes darting around the room. It felt strange to be in a place so different from my own house, where kindness seemed to linger in the air rather than anger. Jasmine took my hand, her fingers warm and steady against mine, and tugged me toward the living room.
"Come on, I'll show you my room," she said with a grin. Her excitement was infectious.
