“The House Behind the Oaks” continues. Enjoy!
Have a great Monday,
Excerpt from where we left off last week:
“No one’s home,” said my father, disappointed. “But we can call the realtor in the morning.” He took a pen from his pocket, to jot down the number on the sign, and we retreated back down the steps, into the sunlight and the breeze, and the hum of lawnmowers making dark green stripes across light green lawns, and the safe, calm normalcy of an ordinary Sunday morning.
I did not mention the boy, but he haunted my dreams that night. I pictured the unseen room behind him as a kind of moldering cave, where he pace like a caged animal, glowering at the dirty, smudged window that divided him from the world of the sane, just beyond his reach. I did not know, then, how often I was to gaze down from that same window, myself.