Waiting in the Hall of Memories

Every Halloween, one house on your street stays dark; no lights, no candy, no decorations. The neighborhood kids whisper about it, daring each other to knock, but no one ever does. You’ve walked past it every year, its windows like unblinking eyes watching from the shadows.

But this year is different. This year, the dark house whispers your name. Its shutters creak in a beckoning rhythm. You feel the pull before you even think to resist. A second passes, but you’re already at the door.

When you press the doorbell, it doesn’t chime. Instead, it shudders beneath your finger, cold as stone, as if whatever current once gave it life was drained away years ago. You almost pull back, but before you can, the door groans open. The hinges wail softly, like they’ve been waiting decades to move.

Inside, the air smells of dust and wax. A single candle flickers on a small table, its flame shivering in the draft. The hallway before you stretches longer than it should, lined with crooked picture frames. You step closer, and your stomach turns.

Every photograph holds your face. Aged, blurred, younger, but always you.

At the far end of the hallway, one frame gleams gold. You recognize it instantly. The moment. That moment. The moment when sounds pierce through your ears and echo in your skull; when ears forget to listen and your lungs forget to breathe.

You reach for it, but your fingers tremble. The faint scent of smoke curls through the hall.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper to the dust and cobwebs. “I’m sorry I didn’t see what was coming. I’m sorry I waited so long to come back.”

You kneel on the floor, surrounded by memories too sharp to forget, sounds too faint to trust, images that move when you look away.

At the very end stands a figure. Their silhouette is faint at first, but as they step into the light, you see your own face, perfectly mirrored, only older. Their smile is weary, almost knowing.

They reach out their hand.

“It’s time,” they whisper.

You hesitate. The air thickens. The walls seem to close in. Now, every picture shows the figure holding your hand; every single one.

Outside, the porch lights flicker to life for the first time in decades.

And you finally understand. The house was never deserted, it was simply waiting, waiting for you to return to the moment you left behind.

It’s my house now. I live in it, drowning and floating at the same time, daring not to look at the image framed in gold.