Untouched (Untouched #1)(Old Work)

Chapter Thirteen

Ellen felt her body become weightless as if she was lighter than a feather. She drifted in nothingness for a split second; suspended in between destinations, and in a state of limbo.

And then her feet hit solid ground and she came back to reality.

She opened her eyes and was met with a familiar site, a site that stirred a mix of emotions within her. Sadness, anger, and loneliness. They all reared their ugly heads.

Ellen's childhood home loomed over her, the painted-white manor bringing back a surge of memories. The once well-groomed flower beds were a sickly brown and had begun welting; the gravel driveway was being invaded by weeds, and the lawns that she once played on as a child had started shooting upwards. It was becoming derelict but with her parents perished, she wasn't quite confident of its impending fate.

Was it hers? Could she come back to live here?

It was a possibility. As far as she fathomed, she was the only child and therefore the sole beneficiary of her parent's belongings.

She moved forwards – towards the building – one step at a time. Each step placed her one step closer; each step seeded and bloomed emotions which brewed like a wild storm. She perched onto one of the steps, and then the other, and the other. Her feet were as heavy as gold bars, weighing her down as she approached the front door. Each time she placed one of her feet down, there was a knock on the wooden slats. They almost sounded as if they were trying to warn her; it's a trap, escape whilst you can. It seemed like an eternity had passed by the time she reached for the metal handle, and laid one finger on it. But then she drew her hand back, overwhelmed.

The handle was searing hot and scolded her finger. It glowed red, the same shade of angry red that were glowing embers. Ellen hastily moved backwards, almost tripping over her own feet. She blinked, and the redness was gone.

"I can do this," she told herself. "It's just your imagination."

She let a fresh spell of air fill her lungs and pushed down on the handle. The door slowly opened, exposing the lifeless, cold hallway which used to be warm and welcoming. She stepped across the threshold, onto the rug that her mother had put there years ago to catch dirt and other unwanted debris. Her mouth opened by habit, to call out she was home but then she realised that no one was here and it was caught in her throat, a giant lump that sat there stubbornly.

With the hardest part over, Ellen walked to the doorway that marked the entry of the lounge room and gazed inside reminiscently. Someone had already been here.

The chair and sofa was covered in stiff storage plastic, as was the coffee table and the antiques cabinet. A fine layer of dust had already began accumulating on the coverings, meaning that it must have been done a time go. The TV was disconnected from the power outlet and that, too, was flicked off at the wall.

She wandered into the kitchen.

Someone had done the job consistently – plastic coverings and electrical appliances unplugged.

Letting this mull over her mind, she doubled out of the kitchen and vaulted up the staircase. Both, her own bedroom door and her parents' were ajar but only just. She caught a small glimpse of the inside of the rooms, and made to go to hers first. And then she stopped in her tracks.

She traced back her steps and visited her parent's room. Not knowing what to expect - what was waiting for her behind closed doors - she held her breath and pushed on the door. It slowly swung open, revealing a bedroom that had been meticulously cleaned from top to bottom. The bed was cleanly made and sheets looked freshly laundered and showed no signs of death. Or murder. Her vision became blurry and Ellen found this the perfect time to move on. She closed the door, hoping – needing - that shutting it would give her renewed strength and determination to carry on forwards.