Home
By rose - silver member
Submitted on August 03, 2025
Part 1
Sometimes we go home.
We lived there before we lived in the big city. The cabin was tiny, but it never felt cozy, like a cabin should. The spaces between everything was too much, the house too echoey. I convinced myself that ghosts lived beyond the cracks lining the log walls. And that demons would strangle me if I was ever alone for too long.
At night, it gets below minus forty, so I am never alone. We would huddle together beneath blankets and try to stay warm. Huge, thick fleece blankets—red with ornamental designs, slate blue, lavender. Blankets that were heavy and comforting and kept me safe.
It is pitch-black outside after six o’clock in the evening and the inside always feels too colorful. My mother was an artist, and described it as over-saturated. Daylight was short, fleeting, and it was often too cold to go outside in the wintertime. We got used to it, though, because we could never stand being cooped up indoors.
I stand with my arms folded across my thick fur coat, wincing as the wind takes bites out of my raw cheeks. The frozen river is milky blue beneath the ice and I can hear its muffled laughter, like bells chiming from a long way away, laughing at everything, evil, mocking laughter. The sound of a river in winter never ceases to get under my skin, like it can open the lock guarding my soul and play with me until it is tired.
At night, it gets below minus forty, so we have to wrap ourselves well in our fur coats if we want to climb onto the rooftop. We do this often. It’s difficult to help my brother up the ladder and onto the roof, but who doesn’t love to look at the night sky, to pierce it with a flashlight? There’s no need for a telescope to look at the stars. They’re about six feet away and you can almost touch them.
As soon as we turn on the lights after a long time away, the house is flooded with golden, the dust disappearing from the tables and sofas. Usually, I have to bring the suitcase from the car, so I never see the house when it’s dark and crawling with spooky evil.
It feels like it’s been waiting for me the entire time. And not in a good way. It feels like it has been waiting for me to fill it up, to fix it, to make it whole again.
I am very good at breaking things. But I am not good at fixing them.
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Part 2
Today is our first day back since the accident and tonight the sky is especially beautiful.
When I came up to the house earlier this afternoon it was dark inside, like a haunted house. My foot creaked on the first floorboard and a horrible feeling, similar to icy water being poured down your spine, shot through me. I froze, fumbling for the same light switch I’d flicked a thousand times before.
I could almost hear the Likho, the demon my auntie tells me about, moving around on the second floor. Her. A monster, with one eye, bedraggled hair, greenish flesh that hangs around her bones, clutching a lamp, maybe, or a human heart, her gnarled face and withered cheeks and broken teeth all turned in my direction, big black eye staring, targeting. You’re next.
My fingers fumbled on the wall before finally managing to pull the switch down. Light flooded the room. The warmth of home enveloped me like a fuzzy blanket. I thought I might cry into its warm embrace.
I stood there breathing for a second. I don’t like being alone but I didn’t feel that I was especially alone. A board cracked from upstairs and I jumped, then laughed at myself. Ghosts. Just the ghosts that shared the attic space with me.
Suddenly I desperately wanted some pelmeni and hot chocolate, or to go skiing and come back to a crackling fireplace. My soul was letting me know that I was home.
After I got the suitcase up the crooked porch steps I went to help my aunt and brother. My aunt was trying to drag a duffel bag out of the trunk, so I quickly went to help her out. She sighed and relief, the tension lines on her face easing as she watched me hoist it easily over my shoulder. (Actually, it was not easy, but I am good at pretending).
Such a good girl, she said. Such a good, responsible girl.
My brother said something under his breath. He loves me, and I love him back, but he hates it when people pay me compliments for being all he can’t be, just like I hate when people praise him for his intelligence or when my classmates whisper about his good looks, thinking I can’t hear them.
That doesn’t matter. He smiled when I could only just see him from the corner of my mind, watching me in pride or admiration or something—anyway, it made me feel warm inside.
My aunt leaned over with difficulty to get her purse out of the car and closed the driver’s side door behind it. The car is a beat-up old junker that looked like it would have been nice in the 1950’s or something. The engine makes a noise like an excited toddler whenever it runs, but my aunt loves to drive it, and the passenger seat is comfortable, so therefore my brother loves to ride in it. The back seat has claw marks from dogs and still smells like a dog but I’ve never been one to complain. My aunt and brother need the comfort more than I do.
They are both partially disabled. My aunt fell down the very same stairs I helped her up earlier today, and broke her back badly—it never healed right and she walks at an odd angle, like a wooden figure built wrong. My brother was in an accident just a couple of months after Zofia died and his arm is almost completely paralyzed.
My parents have to work this weekend in the city, so I am going to take care of them both. It makes me proud to know that they depend on me, and also a little sad, but mostly just proud.
I dropped the duffel bag full of my clothes by the front door. Auntie took off her shoes and wiggled her toes with a sigh. My brother grimaced as he undid his laces. My fingers were stiff, so were my frosted-over laces, but after I’d finally gotten off my shoes, I had to take the bag upstairs.
Like I said, I don’t complain much. But I like to complain. I complain to my pillow at bedtime or to the crackling fireplace when there is no one in the room. It makes me feel better.
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Part 3
I asked my brother to go skiing with me, since the slopes are dangerous and I’m not supposed to go alone. Auntie was apprehensive, but we convinced her. We are only here for two nights and want to suck in as much pure air as we can before we go back to the city.
The snow outside seemed to pull me towards it like a magnet. I could barely wait once I got my skis on. The gale lashed at my bare cheeks, but it was a happy-lashing, like a dog you haven’t seen for a long time, ready to wrestle you to the ground, or like my uncles, who slap my cheek affectionately at family reunions.
You’re growing up so fast, they say.
And I just nod and smile. They like to say things like that even though it’s not true. I haven’t grown an inch in years. At least I’m taller than all my women relations except for one of my cousins, but she could be a basketball player for the WNBA, which no one except for her watches.
Maybe I will eventually grow up, but I will always be a kid, who likes coloring sheets and who wears a bright pink ski jacket.
There are no real slopes, and no ski lift either. My grandad knocked down every tree on this part of the mountain to build the house and the roads connecting to it almost fifty years ago, so that is where we go. There are no cars and the roads are never cleared, so it’s perfect. We can’t even distinguish them from the surrounding landscapes in the thick snow.
I love the thrill, the powder in my eyes, the way the wind screams danger! danger! at you. Pine trees are green blurs, the snowbanks are white blurs, and the house a tiny speck, almost part of the mountain.
I fell twice, landing hard both times, but I’m used to getting up. There was snow dust in my mouth and in my eyes. I heard my brother calling out to me, but the breath had been knocked from my lungs. My entire body was shaking like a leaf in the wind and I whimpered a bit, the force of the impact almost too much to bear. Ordinarily I would have swallowed away all my tears and asked to go home.
But I’m strong now, strong enough to look after two people in the middle of nowhere.
It took me a moment to stand. Something about the way the mountain looks from a certain sideways angle seems to mock you, propelling you to your feet if only out of sheer frustration. But this is my mountain and I love it even if it’s a big bully.
My brother skied over and brushed the snow off me with his good arm while I stood there and shivered. He asked me if I was okay, which he already knew I was. I’m always okay enough to pretend that everything is perfectly fine.
Then we waddled up the hill and did it all over again.
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Part 4
Auntie said I’m going to catch a bad cold if I stay outside so long, but I think she just misses us. We were gone for hours and hours.
My brother was shaking from the cold when we got back inside. His teeth chattered, but he insisted that he was fine, even though he could barely speak. Auntie shook her head at us, moving to the kitchen to make us each a hot cup of tea.
When I helped him get his ski jacket off, snow covered the carpet like a blanket. And then it just made it wet when the heat from inside slowly melted it. Neither of us minded. Auntie shook her head again when she saw the mess, but we pretended that we hadn’t seen or done anything.
We hung our ski jackets on the coat hanger. My teeth were chattering, too, and I was wet and cold, but we were back now. I couldn’t imagine why I’d ever gone skiing or how I’d had fun while doing it. But I couldn’t feel miserable for long.
Auntie had built a fire, and I curled up on a beanbag cushion in front of it, my arms forming a pillow under my head. I love the smell of the fireplace, even the smell of ashes, even though the smoke burns my eyes and my face turns red.
When we were little my auntie would tell us ghost stories, and the fire reminds me of those too, even though I’m not as easily scared anymore. I can almost see dragons and demons dancing in the flames, faces in the crumbling wood, shadows in the hearth. All those things are beautiful to me when I see them in this way. It just feels right to see them, to be one of them, even. It feels like this place.
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Part 5
It isn’t warm inside, it never really is, but with the lights on it doesn’t feel so empty. I never like things to be dark, so even in my bedroom, even in the city, I leave a lamp on. When I wake up from nightmares, the tallow glow hanging onto the peeling plaster of the wall always comforts me.
But at home, the walls are made of badly put together planks of wood and the lamplight is golden-orange, flickery, like the wall is on fire, burning silently, without ashes. I watch it for a while, then pull the lamp closer to me and stare into its glow until my eyes close and I fall asleep.
I have two blankets upstairs. I have had them since I was six years old. Although I’d never admit it to my brother, they make me feel better when I get nightmares. He would tease me forever and call me a baby, but that’s okay, because when I am alone, I am a crybaby. When I have to take care of other people, I am always strong.
Such a strong person, they say to me.
But that isn’t true. I’m only pretending. When I am sure that everyone is safe and healthy, then I cry a lot, mostly out of relief, but also because I don’t want to have to carry my world and theirs on my shoulders anymore.
My bedroom creaks. My bed creaks. Everything is ancient and creaks. It muffles the sound of my sobs. The blankets soak my tears right up. They are stiff with the amount of salt that I’ve let go into them over the years.
I wrap myself up tight in one of them. It’s a deep, velvety shade of navy blue, the same blue as the dress I wore to Zofia’s funeral last year. I let out a long breath, trying to push the memory away.
Your outfit is pretty, she said before she died.
When I am wrapped up in a blanket I sometimes pretend that she’s alive, out there somewhere, going to bring me home. Even though she died what seems like so long ago. It has only been ten months and twenty-three days, but it feels like forever to me.
I wasn’t responsible for the current that pulled her under. But I feel that I am responsible for her death. When her body, limp and white, washed up thirty-eight minutes later (I like numbers, I am good with them), I knew that I was responsible.
I should not have dared her to swim furthest. We were supposed to be best friends, people who wanted what was best for each other. Not people who did stupid things. My brother should have saved her, not me. She deserved to live. She was the closest thing to a sister that I ever had, and I miss her with all my heart.
I can feel sleep overtaking me and I reach over to dim the lamp a little. It’s quiet. It’s so quiet. I roll over in bed just to make some noise. Then, quiet.
I like to sleep in the attic under the sloping roof because this way I’m closer to the sky.
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Part 6
Morning came too quickly. I changed out of my robe and into thick pants and a comfortable woolen sweater with my initials stitched into the back in metallic red. They’re also my brother’s initials and the sweater used to be his, so it’s still several sizes too big for me, but that makes me love it even more.
Auntie had made and finished breakfast and that was when I realized that it was almost nine in the morning—I’d slept late. I ate quickly, gobbling down my food in a way that made her wince.
After I’d eaten I was ready to start the day, which involved lying on the couch in the living room with a good book and some biscuits, my feet propped up on cushions, utterly enjoying myself.
I thought about my parents, about Zofia, about the city, about my friends—I missed them, but that didn’t matter much; I was here now. I was home.
My brother came down some time later and insisted I move over to let him sit down, which I didn’t, and then he playfully threatened to sit on top of me and squish me flat. Then I remembered that I was supposed to be taking care of him in a way that would make my parents proud, and that we only had one more day here and shouldn’t fight anymore, so I moved over and gave him one of my biscuits.
Dog biscuits, he mumbled, reaching for another one.
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Part 7
The day passed swiftly, too swiftly. We went skiing again, and another time that evening. We probably would have skied until midnight, except I fell down and my ancient ski snapped cleanly in half.
We had a hot-glue gun and put it back together with some effort and burnt fingers that blistered later. Auntie watched us with her hands on her hips and a faint smile on her face.
We were just about to go skiing one more time, but the moment I pressed and clicked my boot into the ski, it broke again. This time, we didn’t bother trying to fix it again, tossing it instead into the forest. It spun like a boomerang that never manages to come back and disappeared into the trees.
Auntie came to the door to demand what we were doing as we paid homage to the other ski before we also threw it into the forest. My brother and I laughed until we were in stitches and almost cried, but we didn’t tell her what was so funny. Because truthfully, we didn’t really know.
Auntie promised to buy me a new pair of skis for my birthday next week, but the local resort is always too far from the city, so we never go unless we’re at home I can’t even remember the last time we went to that resort. It isn’t much, just a big building where you can find ski rentals, with benches outside and fast food inside, and endless slopes.
But I like skiing down the roads at home better. I like them for the same reason that sometimes, an old hand-knitted sweater feels better than an expensive party dress, and for the same reason that my grandad’s antique car rusting away in the garage is the one I want to drive when I’m old enough to, not somebody’s Porsche.
After skiing, my brother and I went up to his bedroom on the second floor. It’s a small room and the door hits against the desk if you push it open too far, but it’s very cozy. We sat on his bed and played around on SnapChat until we were bored; then we watched every video his friend group had sent him in the past month, which took almost an hour.
I’m tired, he mumbled, his eyes already closing. He lay down and nudged me out of the way with his foot. Too much SnapChat . . .
I can never get enough of SnapChat. I don’t know his phone passcode so I made sure not to turn it off while I tested every single filter there was at least twice. I have to admit that I also read his messages to his girlfriend. I would have read all their messages while he was asleep, but his phone died and the last thing I saw was, “Your sister is the sweetest.”
I smiled to myself, left his phone on the table and covered him with an extra blanket. I don’t want him to have a girlfriend, someone who could eventually take him away from us, but as long as she’s nice to me, I won’t mind it so much.
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Part 8
It’s so dark outside. The sky is covered with thick, dense clouds. I can’t see a single star but I can see Jupiter, which almost counts.
Even though I’m fourteen now, I still get scared of the dark. It’s stupid, and embarrassing. I get scared because I think there’s someone there. Which is why I like my attic, tiny and cozy, where I can wrap myself up in fleece blankets and count every shadow. I mostly get scared of the dark when I’m here at home. It carries some of my most awful memories.
Like the time the cabin caught fire and I was trapped in the attic, saving myself only by jumping out the third-story window and landing safely in my mother’s arms.
Like the time a man broke into the house. We still have the holes in the painting he shot at. It was an ugly painting and it was the only thing that was hit. I will never forget the sound the gun made when it fired. My father grabbed him from behind, spoiling his aim, and tackled him, squeezing the breath out of him until the police came.
And we were at home, too, my parents and my aunt and I, while my brother stayed in the city with his friends, when we heard that the car he was driving had slipped, slammed into a guard rail, and careened over the edge of the highway, taking three lives with it. Sometimes, I get nightmares of my mother’s cell phone ringing—the police, informing us that my brother had a fifty-fifty percent chance of living.
But more than those bad feelings I get, I spent many of the best moments of my life in this house. Even if my parents sell it when I grow up and move away, I’m always going to come back here. I can just imagine the door creaking open to reveal the puzzled face of whoever will live there. This is my home, I’ll say. Can I come in for a minute?
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