When you grow older, as time takes its toll on you, you start to reminisce and think about the mistakes you’ve made and all the forgotten memories that come floating up from your mind in the most peculiar times.
It was yesterday, when I visited my old neighbourhood. That was when the memories came. The neighbourhood was mostly abandoned now. The gruesome murders committed at the peaches and cream house 46 years ago still remain unsolved. No one dares stay there.
46 years ago
The light stood out stark against the darkness that surrounded it. It was there for just a few seconds—then it was gone.
“That’s just creepy.” My best friend Preston was sprawled on my bed, eyes fixated outside the window. “Does someone live there?” He pointed at a house that was a kilometre away from our dense—or what we call “dense”—neighbourhood.
I leaned against the bedframe, and shook my head. “No. No one lives there. Who do you think? Ghosts? The living dead?” I waggled my fingers, and Preston swatted my hands away. “That’s not funny. You know I hate it when you do that! I might as well…” as he complained, I studied the house. It looked bright and cheerful, all peaches and cream. But the paint was peeling, the windows boarded up, the door splintered but held hastily in place.
We lived in a remote neighbourhood, and things are quiet here. You could hear the conversations of people down the road if you tried. We were surrounded by a dense forest, and the houses were all clustered together—except that house.
A howl sounded. I grinned. “Wolves.” I whispered, my ears pricking up. I heard the ululating howls that followed. I’d always thought that wolves were majestic creatures; beautiful creatures. They’ve never harmed us, and we, them.
“Did you see that?!” Preston’s voice had turned into a trembling squeak.
“What?” I looked at him, brows furrowed. I glanced at the house. It was dark. Shadows. “You’re just paranoid, Preston. I was just joking about the ghosts and the living dead.” Preston turned to me, death pale.
“I saw a shadow—”
“Kids!” my mum poked her head through the door. “Preston, Ellery. It’s 11 o’clock. You guys should go to bed.” I nodded, shooing her away. “Yeah, yeah. Good night.”
I yawned. “Well then, I believe it’s time for the resting of the body.” I flopped down on my bed and prodded Preston gently. “Hey, Prez. It’s fine. C’mon, the shadow was probably just some trees.” Preston didn’t reply, just looked at me with frightened eyes.
Sleep. Thud. I opened my eyes slightly. Preston was out of bed, gazing out the window. I watched him for a minute, then sleep took reign over my body again.
I woke up with a start.
I didn’t know what woke me up—AWOOOOOOOOO. I pushed myself up on my elbows. Something wasn’t right. The howl repeated. Sadness. Grief. Agony.
The howl was low and mournful, a sad cry. I ran to the window, and looked out. I saw the bright pink house—and below it, a dead—no. My heart leapt to my throat. No. No. NO. A crumpled body laid beside the dead wolf, mangled and pooling in blood.
Where was Preston? Where was Preston? I panicked. Preston wasn’t beside me. He—he—“Preston!” I yelled. “MUM! Where’s Preston?!”
I tugged my shoes on. “MUM!”
I found my mother at the kitchen counter. “Morning, honey.”
“Mum!” I fought back tears. “Where’s Preston?” My mother was smiling. SMILING. “Isn’t he in bed? He’s a late riser.”
