Noah

January 14th 2015

It had been nearly eight years since me and my dad had lived in the house, and it seemed as though nobody had touched it since.

Everything about the building seemed filthy, from the smeared windows to the overgrown civilisation that was the front garden. Even the bricks that made up the house seemed to be falling apart, torn apart by an invisible disease. One of the top windows had been bricked, and it looked like the front door had been egged. The old pathway was stolen by the long fingers of nature, and the few brave bits of concrete that tried to escape were cracked and filthy.

I pushed open the rusty gate and it swung open with an uneasy creak. As soon as it touched the grass it was ensnared and held open. I took the first step onto the path with my eyes on the building, and the foliage around the path seemed to flatten and shiver away.

It was sunny today, a heavy contrast with the miserable drizzle from yesterday. It wasn't helping me at all; the sun beating down on me was giving me a headache and I could feel soft curls of sweat slipping down my back like snails.

With each step, my heart seemed to drum louder. A soft wind whistled by, and the grass bristled to attention, pulling at my heels as though trying to stop me. I picked my feet up a little more, determined not to be put off going into the house.

I reached the front door too fast for my liking. The red paint was peeling off it, and the wood underneath was rotten and green. A loose piece of abandoned police tape piped up in the wind, seemingly shaking an angry fist at me. Cramming my eyes tightly shut, I inflated my lungs and reached out towards the door handle.

It felt weird when the handle simply pushed down under my hand with a soft click. When I was living here, the front door was never unlocked. I tugged at the hem of my jumper nervously, then pushed the door wide open.

The interior of the house was dark, but I could hear a soft pacing of feet in the kitchen. I drew my gun quietly, peering into the house. The last thing I wanted to do was step inside, but I couldn't not. Raising the gun as some small form of comfort, I followed it slowly into the house.

My footsteps were muted by the worn and stained carpet. Still, I crept along like I was walking among a field of glass. The hallway seemed to stretch on forever, and each inch I got closer seemed to drive my heart rate up another beat, until it seemed to be all in one continuous thud. I could feel the blood shooting along my veins in sharp bursts as fear overtook my bodily functions.

Too soon I was approaching the kitchen door and then my hand was on the door handle and I was turning it and then I was pushing the door open. I had no option but to go inside.

I raised the gun immediately, using it as almost a shield as I stepped into the kitchen.

Jodie was sitting in one of the kitchen chairs, clearly trying to remain calm. Bruises created a map of colourful blotches on her face, and her left arm was covered in dry blood. When she saw me, regret clouded her features- I guessed she knew she was the bait.

Standing behind her was none other than my father himself.

Even if the knife wound hadn't killed him, I was surprised that his alcohol and drug abuse hadn't destroyed his organs. He looked old and worn, his hair a fleckled mess of grey and his face littered with age lines. His shoulders slumped, and he looked exhausted. Perhaps his addictions hadn't killed him, but they'd certainly made him a lesser man.

I took all this in in several seconds, and raised my shaking hands around the gun.

"Let her go." I said, trying to push my voice up through a swollen throat.

"Or you'll kill me?" he sneered, drawing a knife. "Make sure you do it right this time- go on, right between the eyes. There's no coming back from that surely."