Open #writephoto

Thursday photo prompt

thresholds

 

She had received the invitation just two days before. She knew the place, it had a rather dark reputation. But then, one had to chose: the appeal of the dark side, or the fear of the unknown. This was an old house, surrounded by ancient trees. She was not surprised the entrance door was open. There was no sound, no sign of any presence.

The letter had just said the owner would welcome the opportunity to show her the property, as a prospective buyer. So she was. How he – but was it a “he”? – knew that, was a puzzle.

In front of her was a long corridor. Rays of light, it was early summer, pierced through the darkness. Old wood, old walls. The air was cool, a faint smell of decaying roses and beeswax…

When she heard the voice, she knew: it wasn’t a he, “she” was the owner. The witch of her childhood, the shadow of her dreams. The voice was sweet, sweet as poison, coercing her to enter, to walk the long corridor, to meet “her”.

She knew where she was waiting, she’d seen the scene many times in her dreams. The house was open, but there was no return. She had to meet her fate, the fire, the ecstasy, her slavery. As a little girl she had known: there was no escape.

Window #writephoto

Window

winter-rose

 

The house is still there, and the roses. How happy we were then, how beautiful was our life, the sun was shining everyday…

This is what I want to remember, now, after all those years. Of course, I’d like to travel back, to erase what went on, to start again. I want to see your face, your smile, your invitation, at the little window. I want to be that other me, the good and wise one, which I became, finally, but then, still young, still loved by you.

But years have passed. I am wise, and old, soon I’ll be gone.

Alone, the house will stand, children will look out of the window, to a fresh morning, inhaling the perfume of red roses.