"The Last House on Bellweather Road" | ClancyPasta PRESENTS

I don't remember when the house first appeared.

That's the part I've had the hardest time explaining to people, because whenever I try to tell the story, they assume I mean I don't remember seeing it.

That's not what I mean.

I remember seeing the house perfectly.

I remember the white paint peeling from the window frames, the black front door, the dead garden, even the little brass number screwed into the brick beside the door.

What I don't remember is when it became part of my life.

I grew up on Bellwether Road.

It wasn't a particularly interesting place.

It was one of those long country roads that seemed to have been built for horses and then forgotten when cars became popular.

There were fields on either side, a few scattered farms, and a row of houses toward the end of the road.

Mine was number 14.

Across from us was number 13.

After that, there was an empty field.

At least, there was supposed to be.

The first time I noticed the house, I was nine years old.

I'd been sent to the shop for milk and decided to take a shortcut home.

I remember walking past the field and seeing the house sitting there, maybe 50 meters away from the road.

I thought it had always been there.

There's nothing strange about it.

It looked old but not abandoned.

There was a light on upstairs and I remember thinking that whoever lived there must have been watching me.

I hurried home.

A few weeks later I mentioned it to my mother.

She looked at me strangely and asked what house I was talking about.

I described it.