The House That Answered

Chapter 1: My Husband

For as long as I could remember, the house at the end of our street had been waiting for someone to knock.

It stood slightly apart from the other homes, beyond the reach of the nearest streetlamp. Its white paint had faded to the color of old teeth, and dead vines clung to the brickwork beneath the upstairs windows. The lawn grew wild every summer, then collapsed into a bed of brown weeds when winter arrived.

Nobody lived there.

Nobody had lived there for years.

Still, every child in the neighborhood knew the story of the woman inside.

A young married couple had moved into the house around 2004. According to the adults, they had seemed happy. They were newly married, excited about having a place of their own, and still surrounded by half-open boxes when the accident happened.

One afternoon, the husband was carrying boxes in from his car. With both arms full, he reached the porch and rang the doorbell so his wife could open the door.

From somewhere upstairs, she called, “Coming!”

Those were the last words she ever spoke.

She hurried toward the staircase, lost her footing, and fell. The front door stood directly at the bottom of the stairs. She struck it with such force that she broke her neck and died instantly.