I woke up so suddenly, covered in sweat and thirsty for air. I ran my fingers down my neck, only to find there was nothing out of the ordinary, except for the sheets, now entangled all the way from my chest to my thighs. I tore them off one by one to let the circulation run down my body again.
Feeling my blood pressure rising, I tried to stand up with the help of the nightstand, when I found a glass of water conveniently placed at my disposition.
I contemplated it for a brief moment, ultimately deciding not to drink it but to breathe instead, deep and slowly while looking towards the blue-colored wooden beams on the roof.
A strange sensation sprinted through me... If I watched the beams long enough, it seemed as if the wood was looking back at me. As if the age rings on the wood formed eye-shapes, staring coldly like a peeping-tom.
I laced up my work boots, then my corset. I dusted my long cotton skirt and now, being ready, took my bucket and headed to the barn. When I reached the back door, there was no knob... In fact, every door-knob was gone. They'd disappeared from the rooms and even the windows locks were shut closed. The only place left leading out was the fireplace, which to my surprise, was completely blocked with soot. I don't understand, yesterday everything was perfectly fine.
Maybe my sanity is in jeopardy, but in the last few days, I swear it’s as if this house manifested self-will, a consciousness of some sort.
With my options sorted out, I walked through the lonely corridors. Soon enough, my eyes widened with surprise. There was an envelope by the front door.
It was from "Him". I don't know what his name is, he never signs with it and personally, I don't care. Whenever I receive a new letter, I immediately know it's his and that's what matters. It soothes me, I forget about my daily tasks and this crooked house.
I finished reading and I hurried to write him back. I wrote nonstop of how I'd like to visit Armendáriz and its wide stone streets, its iconic natural museum and lay down next to the shimmering rivers that run by the outskirts of town.
I signed with my name and attached different clippings I made out of an old geography book lying around.
With no access to the old mailbox outside, I pushed the letter under the door, hoping for the mailman to notice it. The lovesick antics that overcame me were interrupted by the roaring in my stomach. I was starving.
There was nothing, not in the baskets nor the cupboards, I could've sworn I stored enough food for at least three days. Pitifully, I only found a bowl of salt and a stick of butter by the sink. Relinquished to the idea of butter and salt for breakfast, I turned to the dining room to find something utterly unexpected. Before my eyes, there was a feast. Everything was there, the mackerels I fished the other day, loaves of bread, even a pitcher with fresh water, and polished cutlery.
Obliged by hunger, I scooped my skepticism aside and helped myself a mouthful of everything. When I finished eating, I saved the leftovers for later. The rest of the day went by and nothing strange happened. Until the following dawn.
I woke up abruptly, again, with a lack of air and soaked in sweat. Now the sheets were tightly knotted between my legs, near my privates... It was too dark to see it clearly, but I’m sure of what I saw. Words were written all over the walls, on the floor, on the ceiling. They were everywhere.
I quickly freed myself from the sheets and jumped out of bed. On the ground, there were paper clippings nailed to the floor, pictures that were so familiar to me. Streets of stone, rivers and different angles of a building... the Armendáriz clippings.
My eyes adjusted to the darkness as adrenaline filled inside me like a water tank. The calligraphy was familiar, but it wasn't mine. In a flash, I connected the dots. “Him” was not a man, not even human. It was the house.
It loves me, it adores me and it might never let me go.
