The house

     The house was large and in need of paint. Broken shutters banged against the walls and fragments of glass littered the front porch. The front door looked more prominent than it should be, but that was of little concern. I entered the darkness of the wood and a musty smell that lived in the curtains of yellow. The dust had settled everywhere, leaving my footprints behind me on the wood floors.

     A giant chandelier hung in the entranceway with hundreds of crystals appearing like falling ice. The stairway leading to the second floor beckoned me to climb them each one singing a creaking melody. There were dark spots on the wall of the stairs telling me stories of photographs that once hung there, but now only imagination can tell me of who?

     Inside a bedroom of a child, an old crib sat in a corner with a tattered blanket and one-eyed baby doll. The room had a smell like powder and warm milk. It made me feel nervous. Another room was larger than the others with many windows and a dressing partition. I imagined a lady behind the partition, throwing her clothes on top of it as she dressed for dinner.

     There was a third room that had a door with a lock I couldn’t open. I made a mental note to ask the seller of its contents. Back downstairs to the parlor where I saw lavish party guests roaming the halls a glass of Champaign and laughter all around. Now it was quiet, too quiet, and I moved on. The kitchen was huge, with a butcher block island where I imagined many sumptuous meals were prepared by servants. There were still two cast iron skillets hanging from the wrack above the island retired from service.

     I spent hours looking in rooms knowing I had walked past several secret hatches and doors that someday I hoped to explore. True it was much too large for just one person but being a writer, I believed it to be just the ticket for the beginning of a new book. The title you ask. It's titled "Are we truly ever alone"?

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