Once upon a time in our little town, there was a house that was always dark. For as long as anyone could remember, no light was ever seen inside that place. Perhaps someone had lived there, maybe it had been a home. But that would have been long ago, beyond what still remained of our memories.
Once in a while, my sister and I could hear what seemed to be the sound of someone singing a lullaby. And one evening a cloud of green smoke floated out of the big chimney and saturated the air around us with the fragrance of orange blossoms. Now, look! A light!
“Wasn’t the house originally painted black?”
“No, it only seemed so because of the shadows of the forests that used to surround it.”
“How strange now to see a light appear!”
“Strange, oh yes. Now you and I can see things. Isn’t that the wreck of a boat in the parlor at the foot of the stairway?”
“I see it, it looks like something Viking, but maybe it’s only a ghost. It’s raining in there too. And aren’t those apple trees sprouting from the wreckage?”
”The apples are black. The walls are mumbling. I see holes in them and cartridge casings scattered everywhere.”
“There’s a young woman sitting on the edge of a bed with her face in her hands.”
“That must be a memory, sister. Look, now she’s on the bed, on her back. Wait, there’s something crawling between her knees. The room is getting darker. Wait, wait, there’s another. Two! Both of them little girls!”