"Ghost House": A short story

It was drizzling slightly and my hair was starting to feel slightly damp as I stood there by the gate that led to the house’s front garden.

It was an ordinary house; at least, anyone else would see it that way. A two-bedroomed end-of-terrace made of red bricks, with grimy windows and an unkempt front garden. The sort of house nobody looked twice at. But for me, it was the most important building in existence.

It was my home.

At least, it had been my home. This was the place where I had lived while I was growing up, while I was studying, still figuring out what I wanted from life. This was my childhood home.

Ten years. It had been ten years since I’d last laid eyes on this building. Ten years since I’d packed my bags and moved to a different house, a different city, a different life. After my parents’ deaths I couldn’t bear to live here any longer… in short, I’d run away; mistakenly believing that by running I could somehow leave my grief behind, too.

But I’d decided that, after a decade, it was time to finally face the past. It was time to return home.

I made my way through the wild front garden, and remembered how neat it always was when I lived here. My parents would have been heartbroken to see it like this. I made a mental pact to try and neaten it up a bit if I got the chance.

By the dim silver light of the streetlamp just outside the house, I slipped the key into the lock and turned it. The lock was stiff, rusty from lack of use, but I managed to open the door by pushing against it.

I stepped through the threshold, stretching my left hand out for the lightswitch, instinctively remembering where it was. Yellowish light flooded the entrance hall, nearly blinding me after the darkness outside. Once my eyes had adjusted I peered around.

It looked exactly the way I remembered it: stairs in front of me leading upstairs, corridor leading to the kitchen, a door to my left leading into the living room. I stepped through this door, and my heart contracted.

It was like stepping backwards in time. Everything was exactly the way it had been when I’d left: the blue sofa, Dad’s armchair, the old-fashioned TV, my desk in the corner. The small table in front of the sofa was still stacked with old newspapers and utility bills. The only thing that had changed was the thin layer of dust that coated everything; apart from that, I could easily have believed that not a day had gone by since I’d last been here. I thought I could almost see my dad sitting in his armchair reading the paper, or my mum watching one of those game shows on TV, maybe looking over at where I was sitting at my desk and telling me not to study too long without taking a break…

My throat tightened and I quickly left the room, closing the door softly behind me. Puffs of dust rose from the faded carpet as I made my way back into the hall. I looked at myself in the mirror that hung on the wall, and as well as my reflection I thought I could also see the reflection of the eighteen-year-old girl who had last looked at herself in that mirror…

This was a ghost house, I thought as I made my way back outside. And perhaps I still wasn’t ready to face the ghosts of my past. Perhaps I never would be.

Still, as I made my way back to my car and started driving home, I felt proud of myself. Proud that after so many years I’d finally had the courage to return home.


Well, hope you enjoyed this! Let me know what you think, I love getting comments on my work.



  1. Omg i love this story...πŸ‘πŸ‘πŸ‘... nice oneπŸ‘πŸ‘πŸ‘

    1. Thanks!! You have no idea how much it means to me that someone enjoys reading my work, thank you so much for your comment! :)


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