262 Achord Meadow

Achord Meadow is a pretty boring place. It's basically a big circular field with knee-high grass and lavender flowers, with tiny houses scattered about, mine being one of them. It's constantly raining here, too. The tall grass is always dripping from the previous night's downpour. There isn't much to say about the neighbors. They're either old geezers or complete jerks, there's no one my age to play with around here. There is one house that has captured my interest for a while...

There is a house considerably larger than all the others directly in front of mine, a good football field's length away. It's white with a brown roof, and has appeared to be abandoned for quite some time. I asked Mom about it, and she simply shrugged and gave me one of those cliché mother responses that I can't be bothered to remember. I've always had a sense of adventure and curiosity, and going inside wouldn't hurt anyone, right?

I tell Mom I'm going out to get milk as I pull on my red raincoat. The grocery store is a good five miles away, but I had become accustomed to biking up there and returning with soggy bread and cracked eggs, so volunteering to fetch a half gallon of milk is not absurd to her or my dad. To this she gives a brief nod, not averting her eyes away from her paperwork but telling me to be home in time for dinner.

It's just starting to rain as I step outside. I look to the white house in the distance, my true destination. I don't bother taking my bike, instead I trek through the wet grass and squish the drenched mud underfoot. Damn, I should have worn boots.

After three minutes of drudging through the field, I'm soaked head to toe once I reach the doorstep. The door is white, same color as the house, with a gilded doorknob that looks newer than ours. The number 262 is bolted to the outside wall adjacent to the door. But enough about the outside. I twist the knob and push the door open with my mud caked shoe.

The inside isn't exactly what I expected. It's mostly empty of furniture, but there's pieces of the wall and broken glass covering most of the polished wooden floors. The kitchen is a little cleaner, with the blue and white striped wallpaper peeling and rust eating away at the ancient stove still sitting there. The refrigerator is still there as well. It seems like the previous owners left in a hurry.

I open the refrigerator, expecting to find decade old wedges of cheese and mutant ham sandwiches, but no. Nothing. It's cleaned out. Same for the freezer. I open all the cabinets that now only house cobwebs. Getting more and more curious, I exit the kitchen into the next corridor with a spiral staircase leading to the second floor. I accidentally kick something small on the fifth step. It's a small wooden lamb with a satin ribbon tied around its neck. Frankly, it makes me a little uneasy, but I shove it in my jacket pocket anyway, a souvenir for myself.

The second floor has four rooms: two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a master bedroom. I enter the first bedroom and don't really find anything interesting in the short time I'm in there before a huge ass spider can scare me out. The bedroom next to it had an enormous gaping hole on the left wall, almost deep enough to see into the first bedroom. The floor is similar to the downstairs flooring, with a blanket of rubble coating the carpet. I spot something shiny in the upper right corner and step over the debris to retrieve it. It's a small, silver spoon, like the size you'd feed a baby with. I place it in my other jacket pocket.

The bathroom is a little unsettling. It's clean, far cleaner than the rest of the house. The mirror looks polished, the bathtub, spotless. Curious, I twist the sink knob for cold water, and lo and behold--water! Why would the water still be running, though? Wouldn't the previous owners have it shut off before moving? I leave the bathroom to enter the master bedroom.

Or, at least I think it's a master bedroom. It's big, bigger than the other rooms and has a walk-in closet on the left wall. I slide open the closet door and I really should have brought a flashlight shouldn't I have? People going into abandoned houses in movies always bring flashlights. It's too dark to see anything, but maybe they didn't shut the electricity off either? I feel around for the light switch and give it a flick once I find it, but nope, nothing. I crouch down and run my hands on the carpet for something, but it feels empty. I leave the room with a sigh.

Overall, this was a pretty uneventful adventure. I'm going home with a lamb and a spoon. Not exactly the kind of haunted treasure I was after. I start down the staircase when I hear a loud crash like a ceramic bowl shattering and a low moan from the direction of the kitchen. Paralyzed with fear, it takes me a few moments to come to my senses and bolt the hell out the nearest exit, which turned out to be the back door.

I run faster than I ever imagined I could back to my house, never looking behind me. Once I reach the front steps I push my weight against the door and collapse on the living room floor, out of breath and frightened out of my mind. My mother, still sitting on the couch in front of her paperwork, cocks an eyebrow and asks me one simple question:

"Where's the milk?"