I'd spent my entire life in this house, my family home, in our name for generations. As much as I tried, I couldn't remember growing up here...
Every other family home has something to show it has been lived in, and my home had them, but the stories my parents told me didn't seem to add up. There were markings on the walls, drawn in crayon, that my parents told me I had left there when I was four. I had no memory of that, but that wasn't that strange, considering how young I was.
Then there were notches that I had apparently carved into my bed frame, during a tantrum when I was eight. I couldn't remember doing that, either.
Then there were the scratches. They dragged from my bedroom, inconsistently down to the basement. I was never allowed in the basement, which I thought was the same with every family. Other than the scary stories of what people found in their basements, my parents decided it was too dangerous for me to be in there, telling me about the mould, the chemicals, the paint having lead in it, anything to stop me going down.
But where were the scratches from? I didn't know, and I was sick of not knowing. I never got the same story twice from my parents. They swore that they never lied to me, but I'm not sure I believe them anymore. I'm thirteen now, mom and dad joking about me growing into my rebellious age. But I don't feel rebellious, I just want answers that seem... true.
My father told me that the scratches were left when I was small, grabbing something sharp when I was learning how to walk, and trailing it along the walls, all the way through the house. But my parents were so safety conscious; why would they let me walk around with something sharp? And why then, if I had trailed around the house, did the path only lead me to the basement?
My mother told me that when I was five, there was something poking out of my clothes, that would cut into the wall when I would drag myself along through the house. But again, my parents checked my clothing constantly, making sure that everything was perfect. My mother wouldn't let me wear something she thought was dangerous. And the trail never went anywhere but the basement.
I lay in bed that night, trying so hard to remember what led to the scratches, mom and dad were always so honest with me, at least I had no reason to assume otherwise, their stories, other than the scratches, always matched and added up.
I sighed, falling into a restless sleep.
My stomach hurts...
I was lying on my front, my shirt riding up to my ribs as I was dragged along the floor, the carpet burning me...
I began to panic, reaching up for the walls...
Startling awake, I shot up in bed, grasping desperately for my stomach. There were no signs of carpet burn, or any marks on me. It felt so real...
I went to school that day, my mind flooded with questions. Why would I dream something like that? I'm not allowed to watch action or horror movies, mainly because I'm too young, but also because mother didn't want me getting nightmares. So why all of a sudden was I having such a violent dream?
School was relatively uneventful. I made my way home. My parents working late tonight, so my babysitter was suppose to show up before I got back, but that didn't happen. I didn't know where she was, and honestly, I didn't really care. My eyes kept flashing over to the door to the basement.
Every time I saw that door, I got goosebumps, my hair standing on end.
I could feel my heartbeat speed up as I moved closer to the basement door, reaching out to the doorknob...
Then my parents got home.
I was hoping they hadn't caught me so close to entering the banned room. I was skittish around them now - they felt like strangers to me...
My mom tucked me into bed, something that she had never done before, but had apparently felt it was necessary. I closed my eyes, once again falling into a vivid nightmare.
My throat was sore from screaming, begging someone to leave me alone, that I was sorry and I would be good...
I could feel blood clotting underneath my fingernails...
I was on the other side of the basement door...
I wasn't supposed to be here, but here I was, banging frantically on the door...
I gasped, panting at my nightmare, immediately staring at my hands in the faint light of the streetlamps shining through my window. There was nothing there. What was happening to me? I felt like I was losing my mind.
I had to know. What was in there? I leapt from my bed, trying to be as quiet as I could as I opened my door, wincing as it creaked open slowly. Everything was louder in the middle of the night. I slowly crept down the stairs, trying not to alert my sleeping parents.
The door seemed larger. More intimidating. I took a deep breath, reaching out and grabbing the cold metal of the doorknob, turning it steadily.
I'm not sure what I was expecting when I opened the door. Ghosts? No. Aliens? Maybe. Laundry? I was hoping so. What I saw definitely wasn't what I was expecting.
It was me. Or rather, multiple versions of me. In varying ages and life states. There was small, toddler versions of me. Older, almost adult versions of me. I was confused. I felt bile pushing up my throat.
Did my parents know about this? I thought that they must have. Was that what those dreams were? Memories of past versions of me? My brain was working in overdrive, panicking and whirring.
The door suddenly slammed behind me.
I turned and saw the closed door, the same as in my last nightmare. I began banging, scratching and screaming at the closed door. "Let me out! I don't want to be in here!" I shouted.
I could hear voices behind it, angry voices that sounded nothing like my warm, loving parents. "You wanted to be in there enough to break the one rule we gave you." My mother muttered.
"You were doing so well..." My dad sighed. "Guess we're trying again." They decided.