187 Begonia Avenue
by Chris Doty-Dunn
187 Begonia Avenue was depressed.
The house had been happy once. As a starter home, a suburban oasis, a hospice. But since its last occupant had died, only raccoons and mice and a few splotches of mold lived under 187’s sagging roof. It knew it was past the days when a couple or a family might look at it and see potential—flowers to be planted, gutters to be fixed, and memories to be made.
Even the children who passed by on their way to school knew. They whispered about ghosts and ghouls, but not even the dead lived at 187 Begonia. The hushed rumors made 187’s beams ache at the reminder of what it had lost.
But over time, the whispering also gave it an idea.
It clacked its shutters as the children went by, shook and groaned when they stopped to stare. It built its reputation until, one blustery Halloween, two trick-or-treaters crept into its yard.
“Triple dog dare you,” the astronaut said from under his cardboard helmet.
The little witch adjusted her green plastic nose. “But it’s haunted.”
“That’s the point, stupid.”
“All your candy? Swear?”
The astronaut nodded, pointing at the window in 187’s attic. “Go wave at me from there, and it’s yours.”
The witch took a deep breath and set her pillowcase in the moldering leaves. She followed the broken stone path up to 187 like a cat ready to be spooked.
The cracked wood of the porch steps creaked as the little witch went up—one, two, three. At the top, she stopped and turned to look over her shoulder. The astronaut gave her a thumbs up, and she took a deep breath before pushing on the front door. 187 unbolted it to welcome her, and she slunk into the house, across the dusty foyer, up the crooked staircase.
187 settled and stretched to get ready, separating floorboards and loosening ancient square nails.
The witch stepped onto the second floor and it gave way, a beam catching her ankle as she tumbled down. She yelped, and then her pointy hat met the foyer with a thud and a crack.
A long moment later, the little witch’s ghost appeared. The sight of it sent a thrill through 187’s crumbling drywall.
The ghost let out a scream as she stared at her body. She rushed for the door, but 187 slammed it, and the little witch bounced off, bound forever by the walls of the house where she’d died.
She ran to the front window. In the yard, her abandoned pillowcase full of treats rippled in the breeze.
She collapsed on the floor and sobbed.
“I wanna go home!”
But as far as 187 Begonia Avenue was concerned, the little witch was home.
She just didn't know it yet.
