A House for All Seasons

 She dreamt of the house in spring: 

The house in soft sunlight is covered in ivy. No doors at its hinges, just plants growing wild. They blossom in flowers, their heads turned to face her. The walls are covered in the drawings of children. The mud in the garden is peppered with imprints of tiny feet. A solitary swing is swaying in the wind as giggles and cries fade in the distance, as if someone was just here before running away to find somewhere else to play.  

She looks up to the attic window awash in an orange glow. She climbs the mossy steps to find foliage blocking the entrance. Peeking through the gaps, she sees shimmering forms hovering around an empty cot. Untouched by the observers, it gently rocks on its own. Dolls of all shapes and sizes are pinned to the walls, all wide-eyed and smiling. The cot is no longer empty. First there is one branch, then there are many. They’re all reaching outwards, they thicken, they widen, until the room’s full and the figures all scatter. The viny tendrils grasp one doll each to shake them until their heads come off.  

The house is trembling with barely constrained mirth and the glow is inside her, lifting her up. She spins in the rumbling as the foundations grow roots. The house is now sliding across the vast landscape. It’s too bright to see and the house won’t stop moving. It will keep her in safety as a sightless navigator.  

She dreamt of the house in summer: 

The smell of burning flesh is overpowering. Smoke blackens the sky and the house is seeping with glittering sand as enormous waves are suspended all around it, threatening to crush and carry it away at any moment.  She’s in the grains coursing through its veins. Eternity is a lingering blaze. The walls are sweating and the windows are gasping. The house is breathing like a wounded animal as hunters’ horns drown the silence. This can’t last much longer, make it stop, she is thinking. The skin is too tight, it shrivels at the touch. Give up the fight, bring down the waves. Scorched earth as far as the eye can see. Extinction is inevitable. The heat death of the universe is but a breath away. The house melts in a sigh. No tears, all dry. 

She dreamt of the house in autumn: 

She glides through the mist amidst shattering tombstones. There was once a city here, unrivalled in splendour. A multicoloured masquerade wove its way through the winding lamp-lit streets and the wine flowed freely. There was the ever-present scent of freshly baked bread and the mellifluous tunes of guitars and violins rose from every home.  

All that remains now is the house, presiding over undignified decay. It towers above her, shrouded in shadow. It won’t give away its secrets that easily this time. The entrance is a gaping grimace. She enters to find clusters of jagged bones sprouting from every angle. Sinister susurrations fill the air. The rooms are all sealed, their doors painted with alien symbols. The staircase is a spiral with wrought-iron railings. More bones on the steps, sharpened into spikes blocking the way up. There’s nowhere to go. She sits on the floor as dust gathers around her. In the creeping crepuscular chill, howls are heard from somewhere nearby. There is no point to wait any longer. She crumbles into dead leaves and white noise.  

She dreamt of the house in winter: 

The house in the dark becomes menacing and unfamiliar. Safety and comfort have soured into dread and unease. The hallways are too long. Every sound is a broken promise. She steps beyond the lurking furniture, louring walls and looming corners, through the dribbling doorways, down the basement steps. The house has one last story to tell. Eyes shut, she listens close. 

There were once others living here, huddled together for warmth in the frosty months. They ate and celebrated and commiserated when life was hard, which was most of the time. They couldn’t hear the wood rotting and splintering all around them, the house groaning in the agony of arthritis. The time came when doors stopped locking and windows yawned open against all effort to keep them shut. The ceiling started dripping and it didn’t stop. Insects scurried through crevices, chittering in the dark. The cold settled in through skin and bone in sharp finality. There was no wishing that kind of fate away. The people had no means to change their lot and escape to a better tomorrow. They lived their last days in pain and one ice-strewn morning they didn’t wake up.  

The house lay empty for a long time after that. It knew it wasn’t going to be abandoned forever, because someone’s always seeking shelter, and there is always the promise of spring.