Dead House Redemption

"Don't go there," my mother warned,
pointing to the dark manor down the
street. The building stood there, a
poignant reminder to avoid darkness.
Kids threw rocks, but I never liked that;
seemed so hurtful to the already-broken
house full of memories.

"Don't go there," my friend warned when
the house became a tourist attraction. "The
cobwebs are plastic and the story is
fabricated." He had gone, paid twenty dollars
for the tour. "The tour guide is shady, he
seems nice enough, but there is...
something
odd about him."

"Don't go in there," the tour guide warned,
"without a candle. The spirits inside are very
strong." I take the candle, thinking to myself:
I can probably handle them without one.
Sure enough, the cobwebs were real, the creaky
boards truly rotten. The poor house was falling
apart, and the tour guide who owned it would
do nothing to fix it at all.

Don 't go there, I remembered, as the pointless
tour came to an end. I headed towards the door,
and the house began to sigh. It begged me not to go,
not to leave it unchanged. "I love you," the door
squeaked, and my heart broke. As I stood there,
I whispered three simple words: "You are mine."

As the weeks went on after that moment of truth,
I repaired the house, covering the broken parts
with blood, tearing down and rebuilding bad struc-
tures. And as the house was renewed the old tour
guide stood on the sidewalk crying out to all:
"Don't go there."