A Subtle Reminder

As it happened, those three months of my life were pretty uneventful. For the most part, I kept to myself. In fact, my presence in Fair Haven was barely registered. I had little impact on the town and the town had little impact on me. But the Winter house, on the other hand, was not so forgiving. Every day, it sent subtle hints to my sub-conscious, elusive reminders of the stringy boughs that branched about its walls. Most of the time, I was unaware of its delicate impression.

But at night, just before my eyes fell closed and I drifted into slumber, that’s when I felt it: the rot spilling over, the roots climbing the walls of the house, seeping through the fibers of the wood and creeping their way furtively into the frayed strands of my thought.

At the time, however, I was so focused on just making it through the summer that I didn’t quite realize the obscure effect the house was having on me. And in the end, it wasn’t until I returned to Boston that the full effects of a long summer spent in that house - of an entire lifetime interred there in that wintry casing - finally became apparent.

Arriving back in the city that September afternoon, as I stepped inside the door of my apartment I expected to feel a surge of relief wash over me. I waited for it; stayed stony still at the doorway in anticipation of it, but it never came. Though my summer in Fair Haven had passed without incident, it had left me decidedly on edge, and I had hoped that coming back to Boston would garner some welcome reassurance. However, within seconds of my return that hope had already abandoned me. Immediately, my fingers released their tense grip and my bag dropped heavily to the floor, thudding gruffly on the carpet. The sound jolted me into movement. I stumbled to the couch where I sat, vacantly staring at the walls.

And there I lingered for the longest while. Evening fell, its failing light bathing me in a shadow of bewilderment as an air of deep disquiet filled the room.