The Brick House was built during the Civil War, three stories with a cupola. I discovered the house one hot July afternoon, seventeen years old and restless on my bicycle. I stopped, dropped the bike on the long driveway leading back to the house and went in the front door.
The house, of course, was empty. There was
an oversized key in the huge front door; I took
the key and put it in my pocket, then stepped inside.
As I moved through the halls, I saw that
almost every room had four doors, a maze
of wood and light where a person could lose
someone in no time. The staircase groaned
under a coat of dust as if exhaling a hundred
years of breath. I tiptoed up the steps, investigating
every floor until I reached the cupola, boiling
from sun beating through the glass.
From that height, surroundings looked miniature,
pinned down by the heavy, silent weight of 3:00 p.m.
I wasn’t worried about being discovered;
I took my chance and investigated.
I found a closet door tucked behind a velvet curtain, its wood scarred by shallow, frantic scratches.
I didn’t find anything to be afraid of, but something urged me to start at the top and close every door on every room as I worked my way down to the first floor.
One by one, the latch-clicks echoed like a series of small, sharp secrets. When I reached the front door, I felt as if I’d locked something into the house that was not right, something evil. I didn’t want to turn my back long enough to leave, but I did. I grabbed the handle, pulled the door shut, and could hear the echo travel up three floors to the cupola.
I stood in the front yard, looked up at the house.
I felt as if I’d created something bad by closing it up,
a force I wasn’t willing to tangle with or confront.
The afternoon was very still. I glanced at my watch.
3:00. I’d heard that’s when the world is at its heaviest.
I pedaled away without looking back, leaving the house
to swallow its own shadows in the blinding glare
of the sun.
Now, decades later, that heavy key still dwells
in a desk drawer, a piece of a lock
I had been afraid to turn.
R. Nikolas Macioci earned a PhD from The Ohio State University. Nik is the author of twenty-three books. He was twice nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, nominated five times for a Pushcart Prize, and twice for a Best of the Net award. I know that is boring, but it’s the best I could come up with.