THE GHOST IN YOU - IT [2]

chapter nine

( warnings; implied sexual harassment, mentions of rape )

By the time Jaime reaches Harris Avenue, she had shed her cardigan to tie it around her waist. Her thighs burned. The nape of her neck was slick with sweat that ran down her spine. She slowed her run upon reaching the street and now walked steadily along the neglected sidewalk. She'd always lived in a sketchy part of town, but it seemed her neighborhood had only further succumbed to poverty in the past twenty-four years. Houses with broken windows and overgrown yards lined the street. So she wasn't surprised, upon reaching her childhood house, that it didn't look any different from those houses.

The house had been sold after the Criss family moved out, she knows that much. Her father had sold it to some doting young couple who loved it's 'worn' feel. Quite obviously, they moved out. Jaime wonders when they did; could it have been last year, or the year after they moved in? And why did they? Did they simply grow fed-up with the plumbing problems and unreliable AC system? Or, did they just need the fuck out of Derry? She'd never know for sure, but she didn't think the house was purchased by anyone afterwards.

Her shoes scrape against the pavement as she walks up the path to the front porch. She prays the wood doesn't cave in as she steps onto said porch, only inches away from the door. Jaime's teeth clamp her bottom lip as apprehension invades her. There could be a multitude of things beyond this door, dirty and despicable things. She really doubts it's all unicorns and rainbows in there. Though, she knows what she's here for, what she needs in there. Get in, get out. Five minutes maximum.

Jaime presses her thumb onto the button latch of the screen door and pulls it open. The hinges creak under her touch. She places a hand on the silver doorknob, inhales deeply, then turns.

Nothing.

"Fuck." She mumbles. The last thing she wanted was to get scratched up crawling through a window. She hops off the porch and rounds the house, walking along the driveway. Amidst the overgrown shrubbery sits two concrete steps that lead to the back door of the house. The kitchen door. Suspiciously glancing at the empty wasp nest on the upper corner of the door, she turns the doorknob slowly. She's relieved to see the door willingly swing open and guide her into the dilapidated house.

Sunlight illuminates the dust particles that sprang up upon movement. Jaime steps inside and closes the door behind her quietly, a habit that resulted from many nights of sneaking out. The tile floor is streaked with dried mud and, upon closer inspection, used syringes and burnt spoons. She scrunches up her face and hugs her arms close to herself.

"Hello?" She calls out loudly, her voice bouncing off the walls and echoing to upstairs. When she doesn't hear the fumbled reply of a senseless druggie, she pervades through the kitchen.

The counters were littered in garbage; old pizza boxes, balled-up tinfoil, dirty paper plates. The floral wallpaper had been decorated in crude artwork and obscene spray-painted drawings. Jaime's desire to flee is becoming insurmountable, so she skips the trip down memory lane and makes a beeline towards the staircase.

As she ascends the stairs, the house grows increasingly more dark and musty. As if a dark cloud hung over this plot of land only. A stair step creaks under her foot, and when she lifts it, the step cracks open to reveal a gaping black hole. Jaime grimaces. Victor would be appalled to see we grew up in such a poorly crafted house.

At the top of the stairs, all of the doors are closed, save for Victor's old bedroom, which seemingly had the door removed. She peers into the room only to be met with the sight of a stained mattress on the ground, a dining room chair next to the mattress, and countless empty cigarette cartons. Hey, Vic, it looks more like your room than it ever has, she jokes dryly to herself.