Haven Lane

The house stood empty looking and feeling sad.

The old, two-storey house at the end of Haven Lane, had been there a long time. It had been very quiet of late, but now there was a real estate agent getting out of his car with a ‘For Sale’ placard fixed to a stake. The house knew that this would happen. Mrs Harris had been gone for quite some time and a strangers hand held the keys that locked it all up. It was inevitable that, as old as it was, someone would eventually come in and make it their own. Mrs Harris was a lovely old lady, very gentle, was always respectful, she cleaned and treated the house well. Would she ever comeback?

After banging in the sign, and after sending unwanted vibrations through the house, the agent approached the front door jangling a set of keys. The house prepared itself. He stood for a moment, selected one, then pushed it into the lock. It wouldn’t turn. He wondered, had they been labelled wrong? He tried another. The house was holding fast. With all its might it held the lock’s tumblers tight. After trying all of the keys, the agent returned to his car and drove away.

The house sighed with relief. This was a reprieve only, it knew that. He would be back. He would break in if he had to, this the house also knew. When will the old lady return? Would she ever return? Peculiar things had happened when strangers had come in and removed all the furniture, including the bed and her favourite chair. Where would she sleep? Where would she sit? She never used any of the other chairs. The steady pulsing sound and reverberation of her old, comfy rocking chair would send a soothing lullaby through the house, through the beams and walls and ceilings. Would the house never feel this again? Somehow, the house knew that Mrs Harris wasn’t coming back! The house would not allow itself to be sold to any new owners. The house would need to think about this; it had to decide for itself what sort of future it had.

The agent returned after office hours with more keys. This time, the door unlocked with ease and he entered with a small bag. He made his way to the lounge and proceeded to measure the room. He was measuring and writing figures down in a notebook. He was moving from room to room, but the light was failing. He went to the switchboard and flicked the main switch. A light came on in the kitchen and he went back to measuring cupboards.

The house felt the familiar pulse of electricity tingling through its wires. The house searched, looking for the weakest point. It found it. A floor socket in an unused bedroom was loose. It had been damaged a long time ago but left unused. The wiring behind it was old and decayed. The house waited.

The man finally packed his things up and carrying his bag in one hand and a small torch in the other, made his way back to switch the power off. The house waited; now straining to maintain its focus on the damaged socket. As the agent approached the switch board he didn’t hear the pop of the socket or the smell of burning wires. He flicked the switch, and using his torch the agent made his way back to the front door, passed through and locked it. As he climbed into his car he didn’t hear the crackle of flames running along the floor skirting, or the pungent odour of smouldering paint.

By the time the alarm had been raised and the fire service was called and on the scene, it was too late. The fire was burning fiercely, but it was contained. Nothing around it was in danger of catching alight; so it was allowed to slowly burn itself out.

In the middle of the night, a single glowing ember, the very last, blinked out… and with it, the house gave a tiny sigh.