It’s a story like all the others, like the one that we keep with us, that we take with us when we leave, that permeates those that stay, all the time. It’s a story like any other. A big house at the end of a path with a stream and a river, just in between, a big old house. It is a farmhouse to which two square towers have been added on either side.

It’s strange, a house in several pieces, as if two arms had been sewn onto another body. This gives this house an abnormally long shape. These two growths on the edges and all along the house extend a huge corridor which serves all floors. That’s where I grew up, in the big house at the end of the road. Where there is no more noise and where the air is cold.

My mother always told me that we shouldn’t be alone here, that she didn’t want us to be without company after dark. In fact, over time we no longer pay attention to it. When you have spent your whole life there, you know the creaking doors, you have tamed the shadows, you anticipate the drafts and you understand the strange noises. For example, behind my bed, there is a wall that it hits. A dull, metallic sound, as if someone, as if something was trying to escape from the ward, there, right behind my head, every night while I sleep.

And then above all, above all, there is this large corridor, this immense corridor, so long that the light does not reach from one end to the other. Let me explain, when we stand on one side, near my big brother’s room, when we flip the switch, all the bulbs in the long corridor light up in a cascade, which gives us time to count to three before the drink is lit, 1, 2, 3. You have to wait until three to be sure you know what is on the other end, to be sure that NOTHING is on the other end. This 1, 2, 3, for me, has become like a formula, like a prayer. 1, 2, 3, as a child I repeated it all the time, constantly. When I turn on this light 1, 2, 3, when it was dark at night in my bed 1, 2, 3, when it banged hard on the wall behind my head 1, 2, 3, all the time when I was afraid, as if to cast a spell by clenching my fists very hard, 1, 2, 3.

But in fact in the big house at the end of the road, I’m afraid all the time, it never leaves me. 1, 2, 3. It’s been ten years since I returned to the big house at the end of the road, ten years since I lived elsewhere, in town, a little far away. 10 years is a long time, it gives time to forget, it gives time to no longer know why we avoid coming home.

This evening my mother asked me to come. I started by saying no, as always, always a good reason, work, friends… But this evening, she insists for a long time. I know she has lived there alone for a long time. She refuses to leave. She sleeps there alone, without any company, even after dark. I finally gave in. This time, this time it’s time to go home.

When I arrive, the door is wide open, the lights are on upstairs but the ground floor is plunged into darkness. I remember so well this entrance covered in a black and white checkerboard. I surveyed it tirelessly. The boxes, whether black or white, I can barely make out in the light of the stairs.

I call:

“Mom?” No response.

“Mom ?” Still nothing

I enter. 1, 2, 3, everything is quiet, only a sort of scratching upstairs. 1, 2, 3, then I hear light footsteps above my head. I call again but still nothing so I repeat to myself:

“Breathe, breathe, you’re not a little girl anymore, breathe”

Then, still in a loop:

“1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3”

I slowly approach the stairs, towards the source of light at the top, on the first floor.

“1, 2, 3”

So I put my foot on the first step, and everything goes out. There is no more light. No light switch nearby. Just the scratching and footsteps running from one end of the house to the other above my head.

“1, 2, 3”

So I let my memories guide me. I climb the steps, one by one, very slowly, paralyzed.

“1, 2, 3”

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, I reached the floor. At the end of the long corridor, the famous corridor, trembling, I place my hand on the switch and hesitate for a moment. The scratching is getting louder and louder, more and more present. The footsteps are getting closer. Do I really want to know what’s with me?

I lit it.

“1, 2, 3”

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Of course it’s a story, but the house does exist, it was that of one of my host families. I hope you liked the story!

Hugs and kisses, see you soon!