I have lived in this house for far too long. So long, that it was beginning to take a toll on my sanity. I was growing used to the fact that the walls whispered to me at night.

The house was an old Victorian, with eight windows in the front side alone and complete with a peeling white wrap-around porch that groaned under the smallest child’s weight. I heard from the landlord that it was nearly two hundred years old. Someone had died here, I could feel it - an ancient death trapped within. But the age of it, nor the death that I knew had occurred in its living, breathing walls, never disturbed me or deterred me from buying the house. Since I was a child, I found comfort in the creaking of door hinges and the softness of rotting floorboards. I never feared the sturdiness of the house, nor worried that the floors would collapse beneath me, plummeting me to my death. If it happened, I suppose it would mean that I was destined to die with this sleepy, dalipidated old house. And in that, strangely, I found peace.

When I first moved in three years ago, I barely slept. My lungs would feel suffocated as I was forced to breathe in the accumulated dust that permeated throughout the air and the intoxicating scent of mothballs that would never leave me even if I went outside. It seemed that pieces of the house stayed with me, attaching themselves to the fibers of my clothes and residing in the dark corners of my mind. In line at the supermarket, I’d find myself thinking of the flickering candlelight in the kitchen that spills onto the wrinkles on my face as I stare into it, or the dullness of the curtains in my bedroom that flays about in the harsh wind, a dreariness that, to me, was so beautiful . . . and I never wanted to leave it, as much as it didn’t want to leave me.

The bathroom reminded me of a chamber of sorts, with no windows to let in even an ounce of light. It was a later addition to the house, built in the sixties by one of the previous owners. Oddly enough, it always smelled like cigars, though I quit smoking a long time ago. I assumed that it was a scent that had lingered from an owner decades ago. Whether that is possible, I do not know. But it is remarkable, really, that the scent of a person can remain even after they have died. I liked to inhale that scent sometimes, thinking that I was breathing in the past, history, the smoky breath of people long gone.

Thinking, thinking . . . it’s a funny thing. Our thoughts make up the bulk of our waking life, and they never seem to leave us alone. Every action requires a thought, after all. And oftentimes, the greatest success can come from a mere idea, so small and fleeting in the grand span of time. But how often . . . do our thoughts . . . betray us? Make us fearful, weak, and whimper in the dark?

How often have you lay alone in your bed at night, shivering under the covers that just can’t seem to keep you warm, and your thoughts keep you up, wondering, pondering . . . thinking, oh, thinking . . . if something is sitting with you in that darkness, watching you, waiting. Wanting for you to see it, if only you would just open your eyes. It’s a funny thing, you know. How our thoughts can spin reality out of proportion. Right?

I’ll tell you about the time when I felt sanity leaving my bones. I’ll tell you, but not without caution . . . because it may just leave you a little less sane after hearing it.

It was a night in October, just hours before Halloween, when I saw the man pacing back and forth at the foot of my bed. He was dressed in Victorian clothing, a long, black overcoat trailing after him and a walking cane in his hand. But there were no footsteps . . . A given, considering his lack of a lower body. The hazy torso drifted between the walls of my room, resembling the static of a TV screen that has failed to work.

When I opened my mouth to scream, that was when he opened his mouth, too. The more I opened my mouth, the more he opened his, as if he was mocking my fear. His eyes grew wide as mine did, and he mimicked my every movement, forcing me to be still. Then, his lips peeled back from his teeth and he dared to utter the words that pounded in the back of my brain . . .

“The house wants your soul.”

Would it not be strange if I told you his voice soothed me, deep and hoarse, like a warm, rough hand caressing the depths of my inner being? Or would you think I was insane? Do not worry, you would not be the first to say that.

Nonetheless, he had intended to scare me, so that he could feed off my fear and grow stronger. But I was not that weak. I would not succumb to the peculiar artistry of a demon in feeding. Instead, I would enjoy the feeling of overpowering a creature of darkness.

But when I commanded it to leave, I found that the same words that I spoke, the man would as well, his expression remaining distant, the wrinkles on his face growing deeper. At that moment, I noticed through bleary eyes the barrier that separated his torso from his bottom half. It was a wooden beam, and above it . . . glass. I stood up, and his legs appeared. The uncanny eyes that stared back at me grew wide with terror once more.

A scream finally left my body as I stared into the crystal-clear mirror.

~ Happy Halloween ;)

World War II

June 9th, 1944

---

There are daisies beside me. Two of them, in fact. My daughter’s name is Daisy. My wife chose it. I think it’s a beautiful name, well-suited for a girl.

I’m lying on the ground - it’s hard, and rocks dig into my back.

I can’t move much, or else it hurts. I can feel something gushing out of my chest. I think I’ve been shot.

I touch the spot on my chest to make sure. Sure enough, there is blood. A lot of it. He must have shot me more than once. I should have been paying attention, but I had stopped for one second to reload. One second too late.

I saw his face after he did it. It was blank, expressionless. Merciless. The effects of a long, drawn-out, bloody war. But I don’t blame him. I would have done the same thing. Every one of us would. There are no feelings in war.

My face is dirty with soot and gunpowder.

I’ve had a rough day, and I’m not sure I’ll make it home alright.

But that’s okay. I’ve done my duty.

Funny. I always thought it would be painful, to get a bullet through your chest. But I don’t feel anything besides the soreness of my legs and the pounding of a migraine. My body and mind are numb from the constant drilling, battles, and fear of death.

But now, in the face of it, I do not think I fear death. Now that it’s here, I think I accept it. I let my arms fall beside me, and I squint up at the sky where the sun is gleaming overhead. Ironic how the sun still shines over a battlefield where hundreds of men are dying violent deaths. Or how a daisy still grows in the midst of pain and suffering.

People all around me have died. Every one of my friends that I’ve made here, gone. If they have done it, maybe it shouldn’t be so bad. Right now, death sounds like a deep, restful sleep . . . and I am so, so tired.

I think of my wife at home, baking bread with our daughter. Their clothes are messy, my wife has her hair in a bun, and Daisy’s nose is dotted with flour. Oh, my sweet girl. And the unborn child I will never get to meet. I hope it’s a boy, I hope he’ll have my eyes.

With little strength I have left, I take a torn photograph out of my vest pocket. It’s them, it’s my two girls. Daisy is smiling, her mother is, too. They are happy, and I want to smile, but I am too weary. I look at them for one last time before I see them again, and when I get there I will hold them all in my arms as they shout for me, for Daddy.

Maybe it’s a horrible place to die, but then again, maybe it isn’t.

My soul will go up along with the others that I have fought so desperately with, the ones that I have cried with, and shared my last moments of joy with. These are the men that I will die with. And I am happy for that.

Sometimes, there is peace in tragedy.

I close my eyes . . .

And I think . . .

How lucky I am . . .

To lie here next to a daisy.

"God, I can't believe our moms made us do this," says Simon.

"Me neither," I reply, rolling my eyes.

Above us, a disco ball spins, spilling colourful lights on our slow-moving, hesitant bodies. Etta James' song, "At Last" blasts through the speakers, which is a nice song when you're not dancing with your sworn enemy. All I want to do is plug my ears and curl up into a ball and die.

"We're gonna take it slo-o-o-w now, folks. Go on and grab your favourite partner and show them how much you think your love has come along . . ." the DJ had blurted into the microphone, and I wish he didn't, because that's when Simon's mother and mine thought it would be the perfect opportunity to push us together and threaten to take away our cellphones for a month if we didn't dance.

I look over to the edge of the dance floor where our mothers are snickering and giving us the "thumbs up" sign. I would have given a better hand gesture, but I thought better of it, lest I wanted more things taken away or more time touching this dweeb in front of me. Let them have their moment of temporary folly.

"It's like they don't understand us," he says as his arms are wrapped around my waist. I loosen his grip, cringing at how he could even have the nerve to lay his hands on me.

"I think they just want us to get along," I justify.

As much as I hated where they were coming from, I could see where our moms were coming from. They had been best friends in high school and still are to this day. It must have been a shame to have their children grow up and hate each other. But it's not my fault that Simon used to steal my pencils in third grade and never gave them back. I paid three weeks worth of my fifty cent allowance to buy those sparkly pink pencils! The erasers hardly worked, but at least they were pretty. Simon spent the entire year smudging his homework, which serves him right.

"Like that's ever going to happen."

I smile. At least we could agree on one thing.

Granted, I hadn't been a saint either. In fifth grade, I would throw balls of crumpled-up paper at the back of his head in class and pretend it wasn't me when he turned around. Oh, and there was that time where I flushed his favourite toy car down the toilet when he wouldn't let me see what he kept it a drawer in his room. It turned out to be his underwear, but still. He could have just said so.

"All you lovebirds out on the floor right now, stay put . . . and put your head on your partner's lovin' shoulder . . ." says that ridiculous DJ.

Before I can protest, "Put Your Head on my Shoulder" by Paul Anka starts playing throughout the dimly-lit room. I can't believe my ears. I was not doing two songs. I look over to our mothers - mine is waggling her finger back and forth to signify that we had to continue or else, and Simon's makes kissy faces like a fish. Both are laughing hysterically. Who were the kids, anyway?

"Look, all we have to do is pretend like we're enjoying ourselves and it'll be over in a few minutes," I say, trying to stop myself from sweating through my dress with all the nerves running through my system.

"You know, this isn't so bad."

Wait, what?

I look up at Simon, the boy who I had declared my sworn enemy back when we were four years old on the day he poured sand down my shorts at the playground, and I wonder just what on earth has gotten into him. I start getting a sick feeling in my stomach as blood rushes to my cheeks. Hold up, what is this feeling?

"It's actually kinda nice. Don't you think?" he continues.

I just about faint when he says that. Do I think? Do I think? Oh, Simon, I've been thinking ever since you went and told Johnny in seventh grade I hated his guts when I actually had a huge crush on him. . . . But you knew that, didn't you?

"Maybe," I mumble, and I can't believe I'm doing this, but I put his hands right back where they were before, and he doesn't protest.

I turn to look at our mothers, but they've already gone to refill their glasses of punch. Simon doesn't notice, and I don't tell him, as Elvis Presley's "Can't Help Falling in Love With You" comes on.

The rain was pounding hard on the window. It hadn’t stopped for weeks, and even the sewers couldn’t keep up, leaving the streets flooded. I sat there, dry in the comfort of my own home, watching the unsuspecting passersby. A mother holding hands with her child as they crossed the road, a man carrying a briefcase to a meeting. They were so innocent, so clueless. Poor souls had no idea what was coming to them.

That morning, I had woken up knowing the world was going to end in seven days. Whether it was a message from God Himself, a incident of random psychic intuition, or pure luck, I had no idea. Personally, I consider it my fate. I think I was always destined to know when the world would end, so that I could be prepared, just like God prepared Noah before He wiped mankind off the face of the Earth.

They liked to say I was crazy, those nosy people out there. Sure, I lived alone in this dusty old house, and I never married or had children like the rest of them, but who was to say that made me crazy? Truthfully, I found it draining, practically exhausting to be around other people for more than ten minutes at a time. I was the only one I could stand. That may make me different, yes . . . but I was always different. Mother told me so from a very young age. But different how?

Finally, I knew the answer from that very morning. Different as in I would be the last surviving human being on the planet, because I had the brains and wit to do it. I was the Chosen One this time. Goddamnit, I was the Chosen One, and no one, not even Johnny from basketball practice, could tell me otherwise. Definitely not Sarah, who rejected me twice when I asked her to the Snowflake Ball. They would see soon what they did to me all those years ago. Oh, would they see what was coming to them in seven dreary days!

I would save myself and no one else. That was how powerful I was, because I had the ability to put myself first, unlike those weaklings that prowled the streets. Soon, there would be only me, but before it happened, I had to tell Mother. She would be so proud of me when she found out that I was being chosen by Divine Intervention to be the only man on Earth to know when doomsday was coming.

I opened the door to the closet and peered inside. I held my nose - Mother needed a bath real bad. She hadn’t had one since that day she wouldn’t stop nagging me about something so unneccessary and boring. What was that word she kept saying? Pills? Luckily, she’s been quiet ever since, just how I like them. They would all be like that in seven days.