The Lightbulb

We moved here years ago. I don't remember how long it's been, a decade perhaps. Maybe more, maybe less. It's a nice house. A quaint house on your typical cul-de-sac. Pretty blue siding with little white shutters like some kind of fairy tale. You would almost expect it to come alive, the windows and door squinting into a cheerful house-smile. 

I hate this house.

Everything here is wrong, too cheerful. Like a child's dollhouse, made to demonstrate the lives of the perfect family with the perfect house, made to fool those who dared not look behind the facade.

The house across the street has no such facade. It is pretty, a pleasant shade of eggshell, but it does not try to hide its imperfections. It pleads, begs, beckons those around it to enter, to reveal everything behind its walls.

Like the Star of Bethlehem, every night a light appears in the attic, as though the house's occupants are calling, signalling for those who see the light to come, to see what lies behind the door. I have watched this light for years, listening to the silent calls but never heeding them. The calls have grown stronger and stronger as the years passed, and have now become a constant voice in the back of my mind, calling me to the house.

The door is silent as I close it behind me, disgustingly perfect. 

A light cuts through the bleak darkness of the street, the call stronger than it's ever been as the door to the house across the street creaks open.

It's welcoming me, offering itself to me.

I can feel it, as though its wrapping warm arms around me, pulling me in.

The door closes softly behind me, the darkness of the house enveloping me like a mother's hug.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

The lightbulb is still calling me, higher. Up to the attic, I have to answer it.

My footsteps fade away as I near the attic drowned out by the voice that is calling me.

Tap.

You're home, come to me and we will be home. A home that will love and protect you forever. Join us, you will know only happiness. You're home.

Tap.

Come to me,

Tap.

and we will be home.

I can feel only my heartbeat and the shaking of the house as the voice pounds through my head. The house feels as though it is shivering in anticipation, as I am.

The second floor of the house is nothing but soft darkness, no rooms, with a single set of stairs leading upward. It's beautiful, like nothing I've seen before.

Shapeless, warm, loving.

The voice calls me higher, towards the lightbulb. 

Towards the light that has called me here throughout my childhood.

The stairs give below my feet, as though they are made of the softest pillows, as though a caring mother had made the house comfortable just for me.

As though she is welcoming me home after a very long trip. 

I can see the light, it is calling me from the other side of the attic.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

The voice calls in my head, soft and sweet and loving.

Almost home, dear, we are ready for you. Come with us, we will love you. We will take care of you, you will be safe here, with us.

It is ready to welcome me.

My steps are swallowed by the soft, wet floor.

I watch as the wall of the attic opens, a deep black tunnel behind it from which the voice calls.

A wide smile spreads across my face as its mouth opens, just my size.

I let it swallow me.

I am home.