The House

An experimental allegory with the main character being a house. There is a lot of symbolism here (what allegory doesn't have it?) The meaning is left up to interpretation. Let me know what you think.

   The House

The three-storied house rose majestically from a slight hill overlooking a pond. It was Victorian, Second Empire; with a lone turret on the right ready to rocket its way into space. The windows were filled with hundred-year-old glass that made everything appear slightly wavy when peered through.

     Inside, warm wood trim grounded the large rooms. Hardwood floors replayed echoes of children's footsteps scampering about in play. Smells of pies baked over the years floated tangibly down the hall from the often-used kitchen. The air moved through the hall with a contented sigh. Down in its heart, the furnace pumped its steam silently keeping every room warm.

     Outside and down the hill, a pond was outlined with a stand of twenty-foot tall trees at the far end; the water was crystal clear. Depending on the angle one viewed it, either the bottom with its own greenery was visible, or a reflection of the house seemed to wink to itself.

     Into this vista, walked a young man dressed only in a pure white, ankle length robe. His strides were sure as he walked out of the trees toward the pond with a purpose that could be seen from miles away. His eyes shined with an inner radiance that sparkled. His bare feet stepped into the water as he studied the pond intently. Even in the bright sunlight, his eyes reflected their own luminosity on the pond surface, dancing to a melody that seemed to emanate from inside of him. He exuded an innocence that somehow had no naiveté attached to it. After contemplating all that was in and on the pond for several moments, he looked up at the house. A smile slowly but inexorably formed on his face. Happy and maybe a little proud, he stood absorbing the scene for an eternity. Then, in an instant, he turned around and headed back into the trees.

    Much later, the sun began its assault upon the house. Rays of light beat down, pealing like hammer upon anvil. Over and over the sun's battering repeated, becoming a symphony of its own; one of pain and suffering. A wind rushed in, but not a cooling and refreshing breeze. This wind was as hot as the sun and nearly as dry. The house was being sandblasted from the side as the sun beat down from above. There was no possibility of respite. Hours passed, but the attack did nothing but intensify. The windows rattled in their frames, shaking as if in fear. The door shuddered, adding to the cacophony.

     Just when the house could take no more, a cloud appeared hesitantly on the horizon. Drifting slowly toward the house, the sun took no notice of it. In a bold move it flanked the sun, momentarily halting it's hammering of the house. Emboldened by the clouds success, other clouds rushed out forming a solid barrier between the sun and the embattled edifice. The sigh was almost audible as the wind dropped in temperature and ceased its malevolent overtones.

     But as night started her reign, the house shuddered anew. There truly was no escape from the battering. The wind continued chilling, colder and colder. There was no more sun beating down upon the house; only darkness. Not a star was shining. Nothing. Void. The house was screaming in the night with no one to hear. Above it, infinity. Below, only darkness. There was nothing on all sides, and everything. It was enough to drive one crazy.

     The moon finally started its march across the sky beaming its pale beams down. That was comforting at first, revealing that the house was not alone. Unlike the sun, these beams sent an electric chill through everything they touched. The man in the moon smirked with a mischievous grin. The windows and doors resumed their rattling. Eternity passed and the house turned catatonic, no longer noticing the horrors around it. It did not notice as dawn began to sneak over the horizon, chasing the moon finally out of the sky.

     The house had survived. One more day had passed, but it no longer noticed. It did not show any signs of noticing the next day's assault. The house still lived, but in a state of uncaring. How many times night chased day and fell again in the morning, it could not count even if it was paying attention.

     After what may have been another eternity, the house was no longer the structure it once was. The weatherboards, sun bleached and chipped, hung at odd angles in many places. The sash weights, no longer attached to their windows, could not assist in their opening. The southern exposure was fully covered in some kind of creeping vine. Its roots and tendrils slowly leeched what they could from the house. Inside, there was no movement. The air was still and lifeless. The paint flaked and snowed down from the ceilings. Wallpaper unfurled from the walls. The only smell was a slightly fetid odor of decay that was impossible to pinpoint.

     The pond was not left untouched. Rather, it was, and by remaining untouched, algae had taken it over. There was no longer movement in its depths and only a slightly unnatural shade of green could be seen smothering its surface.

     Into this setting, a man in a yellowed robe slowly walked. The robe was stained in many places and the threads were unraveled along the hem. His feet and hands were scarred and calloused. But his eyes were changed more than anything. No longer youthful, they now carried the weight of the world. Moisture welled up in them as he slowly surveyed the house and its surroundings. A lone tear trailed down his face and plunged to the earth. As it fell, one could hear the far off sounds of hungry children crying and of men dying in lands that had not born them.

He slowly lurched forward until his feet were at the edge of the pond. He stooped over, looking frail, and swept his hand across the water's surface. He continued his labor until a fairly large area was cleared of algae. He looked down upon the surface again and pondered the reflection he saw. The house, as shown in the reflection, appeared as it had when last he visited. All its majesty shined forth from the pond, bringing a small smile to his face.

     He looked up again at the beaten down remnants of what once was, and sighed. With slow, and barely perceptive movements, his foot crept forward. Little by little, he entered the water growing stronger with each step. Eventually he drew even with the reflected glory of the house. As he stood contemplating, the reflected door opened, inviting him in. With just a moment of hesitation, he continued. He crossed the threshold and closed the door behind himself.

     After a couple hours, the algae slowly drifted back, covering once again the entire surface of the pond.

Reviews

[Dark Angel]

All I can say is WOW... To be born into this world is in a way to be condemned to suffering, even as just a house. I loved how you described the gradual shift from new to weathered and how the man once young and in white became old and in yellow. The pond is just a mystery but it seemed to take the old man to a place he would rather be than where he was at. I actually felt peace towards the end.

[J.]

Wow I love the way you created this! How the concept of time unperceived, can change many things both living and inanimate.

I especially like the way Michael of Gilead described meaning of your story in his review! Very visual and insightful!

[HorrorMaster]

Very good story. I like it.

[Michael of Gilead]

I take a very simple meaning from this, the house is the mans soul and after a lifetime he rejoined himself in death?

[Zackery Alan Daley]

Very descriptive for a seventeen year old. You have new material that doesn't equal this and that is NOT an insult. Wonderful vocabulary, one of the best short stories I've read on here.

[Rain (YouoweYoupay)]

That was an extrodinary, original piece. I really enjoyed reading it. Your detailing was captivating and the emotions, powerful. I say well done, and keep writing.

-Wella.

[Erin]

Oh. My. Gosh. Your vocab and style astounds me. You're very consistent between works and in works. Short stories seem to be your thing. Stick with it. They are your strong point.
Your style began to achieve a rhythm around the fourth paragraph. I'm telling you, it's your thing. Great job.
PBP

[Khitii Lae-Ahn]

The link between the self and the home...often unapparent yet alwways there...embedded deep with the core...you have touched this with gilded pen...and the emergence of the smile upon the reflection of a long lost time...before the algae facade returns...sends shivers through warmth of heart...Lovely tale dear

[Matthews Reggie]

unique and wonderful.....

[Short.Nerd]

Great job! It is a wonderful write.