It shouldn’t have been boarded up. It’s lawn pristine and cleanly cut. Its trees always beautiful and following regulation. In the fall the leaves always found themselves in neatly tied bags by the curb. Yet no one came outside.

Once when I was smaller and full of that trepidantion that couldn’t be told no, I stayed up all night, watching. Waiting.

The lawn had been full of leaves, is was around the time that the lawn seemed to clear itself. I had sat, crouched, under a bush in a house across the street, with my little sisters cheap toy binoculars.

Nothing moved. Nothing changed. I kept my eyes on the house, waiting for the leaves to miraculously fly themseleves into bags. Waiting for the bags to tie themselves and for some mystical force to command them to the curb.

I didn’t sleep that night, vowing to not look away, the only moments I didnt have my eyes on the lawn was when I blinked.

And the mistake I made to open a bag of chips.

In the handful of seconds, the lawn, which had been full of leaves and minimal overgrowth, was clear of leaves and stickes. While I had been busy satiating my growing abdominal hunger, the lawn had been trimmed and the leaves ready for pick up. I remember scolding myself, and throwing the pink plastic toy to the floor.

As I grew older and entered those teen years of independance, the house grew to be a facination. Its arched windows and beautiful trim framing the soft wooden siding. The brick on its corners centering it and making it stand out amoung its nieghbors, and the budding garden at its feet spoke of delicate touches.

I delved into what I could about its architecture, and learned more in that obbssesion than I had in classes.

I would stay up till midnight, sketching and re drawing the house in my notebooks, remagining its windows, perfecting the garden and getting everything just as it was: perfect.

Except for the boards.

They covered every window, every possible enterance, from the inside. The inside of the house was a mystery, and one that grew as I did.

In the hours of the night, sometimes when passing the house on the way home from a freinds house, I’d take a longer walk, just to pass by the house, standing infront of it just to peer between cracks thet were not there.

If those boards were not there, I wouldn’t have had this facination.

This facination drove me back home after a couple years. As I came into my own and became who I was, I had a few years where the house was only a side thought, years where catching myself recalling its garden and its boards whenever I looked at anything that held my interest.

Now that I’ve decided to move back into the neighborhood, I’ve bought myself a house accross the street.

I sat in my chair, the day growing old as I smiled at the house.

For once, it seemed to smile back, no longer simply catching the light in its windows.

For a week I would spend my afternoons gazing at the house, wondering how it could be how it was. How it could be so perfect yet sealed.

I awoke at night, late and the clock marking two. I got out of bed and looked at the house.

“Morning to you too.” The words whispers of wind as I rubbed my eyes. I felt my chest fill with that childhood curiosity.

I had to know what lay beyond those boards.

I grabbed a jacket and brushed my hair back, stepping out into the night air. The wind seemed to guide me across the street, the house pulling me to it. It was asking for me to come inside.

As the cold quiet night wind bit my nose and ears, I walked through the road. I paused at the bricks and placed a hand on the gate. I smiled, as I pushed the gate open softly, having the courage to finally do what I wanted. I looked up at the house, and the moon shone in its reflections.

The gate open behind me, I stepped on the grass, opting to not use the winding path to get to the porch. Each step bringing me closer to its door. I walked past the garden, a tulips silently crushed under my boot.

I brushed my fingers on the posts and sighed. Finally I was going to see what these boards hid. My fascination would be lifted from me and I could have what I wanted for my whole life.

I pulled out the crow bar from my bag and stepped up.

The houses porch whined under the wieght of my foot, as I stepped up the second step. I held my breath and took a glance around, as I got to the door. The front porches floor complained and creaked, as I tried the doors handle.

Why wouldnt the damn house let me in? I fumbled with the metal rod into the door and stabbed it into the side, the glass window shattering open. The bar wedged and pushed, breaking the lock, as it fell to the porch with a clang.

I pulled the door out of the way, the hinges shrieking as i grabbed the wooden boards. I pushed on them with my hands, stepping on the metal bar as I pried through the wood, my hands pulling the nails out of the wood. Kicking the lower boards, my shoe snapping spliters and throwing my shoulder at the door.

There was no reason to turn back now. I was getting into that house. As the house buckled under my attacks, some boards finally gave way, clattering to the floor. The stupid obstacles finally out of the way.

I pushed inside, whether the house wanted me to or not.