This is an improvised short story written in response to a prompt by Gail Caron Levine in her excellent book Writing Magic.
You remind me of myself when I was your age. I walked into a creepy old house once, too. I remember it like it was yesterday: the low-slung roof; that quiet gray paint, those squinting, shuttered windows, and the empty porch rocker that rocks, rocked, rocked, day and night. I entered the house on a dare. It was a late April, I think, perhaps the 22nd. A nice spring day, just like today, warm enough that we were all out that afternoon with our bikes. It was so long ago…
But I digress—you weren’t in a hurry, were you dear? No? Have a cookie, then, and I’ll put a kettle on.
I didn’t know anyone who had ever been inside the house, or even set foot on the porch, but the chair had been rocking, rocking, rocking for as long as I can remember, as steady as the ocean. Billy down on Cotton Lane once said that he had been on the porch and even touched the chair, but everyone knew he was a liar. What’s that? It’s called MLK Drive now? Ah, well that’s probably for the better. It does seem like everything changes so fast these days, though—I feel like I can’t keep up. But somehow I’m still here. So tired. But I keep going, just like that old chair did.
Anyway, where was I? Ah, your tea! Here it is. Ah, but yes, before that—the porch rocker, always rocking, rocking, rocking, so gently. No one rocks anymore, of course, but we all still lounge somehow. The adults said that old chair was just rocking because of the wind. But of course, adults were always saying strange things. We would ask them who lived in that house with the chair, and they would get that wistful, confused look on their faces that they so often did when we asked them things that they didn’t want to answer, and they would stammer, saying they weren’t sure, but wasn’t it… ah, but surely it had been… it must have been… and so it went, and the chair kept on rocking, rocking, as if it were an old lady nodding along.
The porch creaked when I stepped onto it, of course, and then it seemed to sigh. The chair paused for a moment—I swear it did. Then—I swear—it rocked again, just once, bobbing like it was nodding at me.
I glanced back at my friends, the assemblage of kids and bikes leaning against the once white-washed picket fence that was now overgrown with honeysuckle vine that was just starting to bud. They waved me on, but with silent awe at my already legendary feat.
The house was warm inside and smelled faintly of cinnamon and brown sugar, like someone had been baking not too long ago. Ha, yes, I suppose just a bit like this house does right now—you’re right! More tea, dear?
Ah, yes… it was dusty, though. Everything was, except—as I crept through, keeping my hands to myself as if the walls might be made of poison ivy—a plate of ginger snaps on a crochet lace doily in the middle of the kitchen. There was nothing else on the weathered wooden table.
The cookies looked—and smelled—fresh. I don’t remember how long I stared at them—oh, eat up, my dear, I’m nearly done with my story, and then I’ll have to go. Yes, I’m in more of a hurry than you are, it seems, dear. Now, where was I? Yes, the cookies.
As I stared at them, I heard a creak behind me, and a shaky voice: Won’t you sit down, dear?” I didn’t turn around; I was too afraid.
But I didn’t need to. Something like a gossamer shadow passed by me, and as it did, I smelled camphor and vanilla. But then I saw it was an old woman—I suppose about as old as I am now, yes, now that you mention it. She was veiled in the way that old widows used to do, even before my time, and she had a white lace collar. Her face was deeply creased, her eyes occupying sunken hollows. She rocked like the chair as she moved. “Won’t you sit down and have some, dear?” she said to me in a voice that creaked like the floorboards. She motioned to a rocking chair by a fireplace.
Now I had been taught to respect my elders and say “Yes, ma’am” and “Thank you, ma’am,” and that’s just what I did. The chair she offered me was an old wooden rocking chair, and it seemed to rock, rock, rock of its own accord when I sat in it. Oh, no, I don’t like rocking chairs anymore, and I’ve made the place over to my liking, just like you will.
She told me a story, just like I’m telling you now, about how she, too, had found the house once.
Yes, if you’re tired, dear, just rest your eyes for a moment. I’ll finish my story soon enough, and then I’ll be on my way. No, dear, don’t you worry. Yes, that old rocking chair the old woman had given me put me right to sleep that day—or maybe it was the cookies.
When I woke up, I found my friends had gone. I sat on the chair on the porch and rocked, rocked, rocked, wondering what I was to do, and if they might come back for me, but they never did. Some people, adults, passed by that looked a little like them, but they never seemed to see me. I suppose years passed that way, and I kept rocking, and I became the old house and it became me, and we creaked and groaned together, and after a while I didn’t wonder anymore where the old woman with her ginger snaps had gone—because when I looked in the mirror in the entryway, I saw her staring back at me.
Yes, rest now my dear. It’s time for me to go.
The house is yours now.
Dr. Cox's Desk 