House Down the Hill, Part 3

By early February, I finally feel empowered to make some lifestyle changes and it starts with a prescription. I still choose not to exercise at the rec center, but I make a more concerted effort to walk to and from the main campus as much as possible instead of going in the morning and chilling out there until the end of the day when I have group meetings. The walking is a good start, I figure, and it’s not too demanding.

The only real downside is going past that heinous house more often. It’s worst in the afternoons when most people are in class or elsewhere on campus. Despite the abundance of sunlight, there’s something cold and eerie about the place, its vibe spreading like a high tide over the sidewalk. I tell myself it’s just my imagination; the hair raising on the back of my neck and the strange gust of wind as I cross the driveway are the stories psyching me out. At those times, I feel as though there are eyes, somewhere behind those boarded up windows and condemned walls, watching me and waiting. For what, I’m unsure. But I shrug it off the next moment, putting it from my mind, and am soon entering the safety of my apartment.

“Catherine. Catherine!” I sit bolt upright in bed to silence. My heart is pounding and my breath sounds loud enough to wake the neighbors. Across the room, Catherine is mostly hidden beneath her giant pink and white comforter, the colors and swirling design distinct despite the darkness. I jump out of bed and stumble, my legs shaking under me. She’s breathing softly and nothing appears to be out of the ordinary.

I wait a moment longer. Still she sleeps as soundly as ever. My mouth is dry and my body is still shaking from the shrill screaming I think I heard. For a moment, I believe I might be able to go to bed again, but it’s like a bad dream that persists; the screaming continues, with no obvious cause, the moment I close my eyes.

Pouring myself a glass of water in the kitchen, I sit at my desk to browse the Internet, hoping to find some TV show interesting enough to take my mind off of the nightmare and mundane enough to lull me into a new slumber. I’m proud of myself as I scroll through the list of recommended shows in the comedy genre. I’m already more empowered to turn down my vices—namely unnecessary sweets.

I choose something with Charlie Chaplin and, an hour later, I’m falling asleep on the couch.