the house where bad things happen
If I take a certain route when I’m walking my dog, I pass by the house where bad things happen. I cannot confirm that it is such a house, but I feel that it is. It is a ranch, sided with dark brown (vertical) clapboard. The lot it sits on is full of tall pine trees and much brush. The lot is marked by several beautiful stonewalls, made sinister by what they surround. Off the back is a dingy, plasticy looking sunroom. The blinds are always down. Dark, dark, dark. There are cement steps leading up the front door and some plastic flowers in the window (with the blinds behind them). There is no light.
When I first saw it I was immediately depressed. Who lives there? Why do they like it so dark? What are they hiding? This feeling has not left me. I hate passing it but the road it is on is a good one for walking, so I pass it.
I can’t, or don’t want, to tell you what I imagine happening behind those blinds but it’s not good. I just feel that it is not good. I want to break down the door and say, “Stop it! Stop it right now. I’m on to you.” But I pass and I watch it in my peripheral vision. I hope it knows that I know. And I hope it doesn’t. I hope it continues to let me pass by unharmed.