The House No One Remembered
It was an ordinary street, in an ordinary town—except for one thing.
The house hadn’t been there yesterday.
Mark drove past this neighborhood every day. The old brick buildings, the small cafes, the familiar sidewalks—he knew them like the back of his hand. But this house? This tall, modern, black structure wedged between two ancient buildings? It didn’t belong.
At first, he thought he was imagining it. Maybe it had been under construction? Maybe he had just never noticed? But then he asked around.
Nobody remembered it.
Not the old man at the corner store. Not Mrs. Hargrove, who had lived on this block for fifty years. Not even James, his childhood friend, who had grown up in the house next door.
“Mark, that lot has always been empty,” James insisted, confused.
Mark wasn’t convinced. So that night, long after the town had gone to sleep, he walked up the creaky steps and pushed the door open.
It was unlocked.
Inside, the house was warm, filled with the scent of cedar and old books. Light glowed from unseen sources, flickering like candlelight. But the deeper he walked inside, the more he noticed something off.
The photographs on the walls.
They were of him.
Childhood birthdays, school graduations, even a picture of him from last week, standing outside his own apartment.
His breath hitched. A cold whisper brushed his ear.
“Welcome home.”
The door slammed shut behind him.
