By Kristy Holditch
“Once upon a time, just off a dirt road in a town called Larkspur Falls, there lived a house.”
“Woah, woah, woah… did you say lived a house?”
“Yes…,” Aunt Alice said, not even sparing a glance, as if she had stated something so plain and obvious that it required no further explanation.
“The house was… alive?” The little girl’s eyes were stretched so big, she wondered if she had any face left to spare, as she tried to wrap her tiny brain around such a thing. Meanwhile, her older sister sat next to her, quiet and completely unfazed.
“Please, hon, save your questions for the end, okay?” Aunt Alice paused to regroup, taking a steamy sip of the chamomile tea she held in her tender, wrinkled hands, then leaned back in.
“So, this house. It was a humble thing, one story, painted white with a door the color of the sky. Now, let’s see, have either of you ever seen… a tunnel made of trees?”
Both girls shook their heads, their matching pigtails practically swaying in a synchronized dance.
“The whole street was in this tunnel of sorts,” she said. “Its canopy made up of magnolias and oak trees over a hundred years old, that bent and curved like circus contortionists.“
“But Aunt Alice, what about the house?” the little girl urged. Then, in a whisper, “The living house?”
Her aunt had just about had enough, or perhaps was just needing something a bit stronger than chamomile to deal with all these interruptions. Her breath suddenly sounded labored and shallow, but after a moment, she closed her eyes, sipped in a slow, deep inhale, and began once more. She told them the house wasn’t like the others on the street.
“Because it was… alive?” The little girl found she couldn’t not whisper that word. It felt sacred somehow, ghostly even. Like saying it too loudly would somehow taint its magic, or perhaps unleash something unthinkable from its mysterious depths.
Aunt Alice must have decided to simply ignore her then because she didn’t miss a beat.
“Like the trees that surrounded it, it had heart-shaped vines crawling up its sides, and a rose garden out back where hummingbirds and bumble bees sashayed from one flower to the next. And all those topsy-turvy branches above held an entire universe in their arms; melodies of birdsongs echoing back and forth, squirrels chasing one another’s tails, the dance of dragonflies and other colorfully dressed insects trying to avoid the intricately woven homes of native spiders. Down in the brackish water out past the roses was another dance, that of muddy crabs and tiny fish hoping to evade a surprise visit from the patrolling heron whose wingspan could cover the entire width of the channel.”
“And, the house?” the little girl asked yet again, her mind running circles through the possibilities. She had already begun picturing the sky-blue door opening with a well-mannered smile to greet visitors, a kitchen sink that did the dishes, floors that cleaned themselves spotless, and an oven and stovetop that worked in tandem cooking up old family recipes that made her mouth water at the thought.
Aunt Alice simply smiled, her eyes far away as if flipping through the pages of these thoughts then said, “Indeed. Well, time for bed.”
“But Aunt Alice!” she cried. “What about the living house? What about the magic?”
Aunt Alice looked at her then and once again as if stating something rather plain and obvious, told her, “Well, it stood tall and humanlike, its chimneys like lungs, its windows and doors like eyes and ears taking in the world, and one day, maybe, you’ll be lucky enough to see. But, you should know, it doesn’t let just anyone in. Like trust, passage must be earned.”
The girl watched the steady rise and fall of her sister’s chest who had now drifted to sleep next to her, then looked up inquisitively at her aunt.
“How do you earn it?” She asked.
“My dear, that is for you to find out. Of course, I’ve always found that good manners help.” Then, she kissed her on the forehead and tucked her into bed.
The little girl stayed up all night, dreaming of that magic, living house, standing tall and humanlike with its lungs and eyes and ears that took in the world. But what, she wondered, made up its heart? Its magic? After some time, she decided she would ask Aunt Alice in the morning, and as dawn began waking, she fell asleep.
Though she never did get the chance to ask her. Her mother said Aunt Alice had to go away, though when she was old enough, she eventually learned the truth, that her sweet aunt with her tender, wrinkled hands and bedtime stories of enchanted places, had fallen asleep and never woken up.
All those dreams of that magic, living house seemed to drift away with her memory until many years later, while cleaning out her aging mother’s home, the not-so-little girl stumbled upon a gold key. Along with the key was a piece of paper that had an address and phone number scribbled in Aunt Alice’s handwriting.
Three days later, she was on her way to a town called Larkspur Falls. She had called the number and spoken to a man of very few words, his voice lukewarm and curt. It took a few hours from the city, through windy, dirt roads littered in potholes and stretches with barely any signs of human life. Finally, she turned down a dirt road enveloped in a tunnel of trees, and knew this had to be it.
As her worn tire tracks announced her arrival, she thought, there it is. The house stood tall yet humble, painted white, just like Aunt Alice had said, with a door the color of the sky. But, it was the furthest thing from alive. It was dilapidated and practically crumbling. Before she could even get out of the car, there was a knock on her window. Through the glass, stood an older gentleman with hunched shoulders and a disposition just like their phone call that told her he had places to be that were anywhere but this rotting pile of wood and stone. She rolled down the window, through which he handed her a manila envelope, then left without a single word.
That was strange, she thought. Though it was about to get much stranger. Opening the envelope, she pulled out a single piece of paper, and was overcome with disbelief. A deed for the house, stamped with her name in bold, black ink.
It’s… mine? Aunt Alice left it to… me?
Had she been mistaken? Was this even the right place? Before her eyes was anything but a magical house, let alone a properly working one. This was a house that had given up. A house of ruin and despair, one that had lost its will to live long ago. What was she to do with this complete and utter disaster?
Then came an image of a single match, one strike setting the whole thing ablaze. That certainly would be the easiest fix. And then, as if in response, a darkness seemed to pass over the house like a black cloud swallowing the sun whole overhead. She felt it then, an energy inching closer towards her, as if the house were reaching out its long, bony fingers poised to strangle anyone in its path. She squeezed her eyes shut and gripped the gold key in her hand until it left a mark. When she opened them again, the sun was returning, and the house seemed to be standing a touch taller like a young child freshly masked with their best behavior. Even the pair of lanterns on either side of the front door were illuminated now. Had they always been?
When at last she had mustered enough courage to get out of the car, she approached the house in slow, measured steps, fearing any sudden movement might awaken the darkness once more. Most of the windows were boarded up and vines and weeds had begun to envelop the whole thing from the roof down. The sky-blue door did not smile, and from its tiny window, she could see the floors inside were far from spotless. From what little she could see of the kitchen, she knew the oven and stovetop hadn’t worked in years, let alone in tandem to cook up old family recipes like she had dreamt as a little girl all those years ago.
She raised her hand to the rusty doorknob, but it wouldn’t budge. She tried again, and again, jiggling it and pushing it back and forth with all the force she could. Nothing. The back door offered no such luck. Frustration bubbled up as she pounded her fists against the stubborn wood, the house silent and still. She dug in her pocket for the gold key, but found no keyhole to put it in. It was starting to get dark and she could feel the desperation taking hold. She knocked on the door, then began pounding it with her fist. Then, she felt a small zap shoot through her hand and up her arm. She jumped back, rubbing it as if tending to a bee sting. It was clear, no passage. That’s when she remembered Aunt Alice’s words: “Like trust, passage must be earned.”
All these years later, she still had the same question. How can I possibly do that?
The only clue Aunt Alice had given her was something about good manners, which even then, she had found a little silly. But she was running out of options. So, she closed her eyes, took a slow inhale, and decided to try the magic word.
“Please?”
With that, the lock twisted open as if by an invisible hand just as the doorknob morphed into a brass one, holding out its shiny palm to take the key. For a moment, she stood frozen, rubbing her eyes as if that might clear things up.
But only one thing was clear, she had no choice but to place the gold key in the house’s outstretched palm and await what happened next. There was a pause––a long breath held between her and the house.
Then, indeed by magic, the doorknob turned, the door creaked open, and the house welcomed her in.
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