"Each day, the memories fade a little more. Each day, I forget another piece of who I was"
Then I awoke not in the comfort of my own bed but sprawled on my side upon a cold, wooden floor, a far cry from the familiarity of my time—this place felt like a realm suspended in a forgotten past. I found myself in a kitchen from another era, uneven underfoot and scattered with stray wisps of straw and patches of dirt—remnants of a day's labor long gone. My head spun, my hair a tangled mess, and soot smeared the ground and the side of my face, contributing to the air of disarray that enveloped me.
Before me, the kitchen sprawled in a disorienting mix of familiarity and strangeness, dominated by a large hearth where flames crackled cheerfully among glowing embers. I recognized this kitchen; the pictures on the walls—the me's—stared down at me, their expressions inscrutable, possibly judging or warning. The portraits remained still, their painted eyes seemingly tracing my every movement, and I couldn't shake the feeling of being scrutinized.
Above the mantle, iron pots and kettles hung in careful array, their darkened surfaces gleaming from years of use. The scent of woodsmoke mingled with the rich aroma of herbs, braided bunches drying in the warm sunlight that streamed through small, paned windows, creating an oddly comforting atmosphere that belied the unsettling truth of my situation.
A sturdy wooden table, handmade and marked by the scars of countless meals prepared over the years, occupied the center of the room. Mismatched chairs surrounded it, each bearing its own history and the artistry of its maker. I was alone in this kitchen, my breath coming in heaves, the weight of my black gown pressing down like a shroud. Where had everyone gone? The portraits—they changed and now each face was different, yet something in the eyes was identical. The same terror and confusion as the first time I could remember. And in one of them, I saw something that made my blood run cold.
A face I almost recognized.
I had to move; remaining here, drowning in their collective stare, would surely drive me mad. With a sense of urgency, I turned away and ventured deeper into the cabin's interior, leaving the kitchen behind as I sought anything that might explain my presence or offer a way to escape. The next room I entered revealed a table set with ten bowls and utensils, remnants of meals still clinging to their surfaces. I stopped in my tracks and picked up one of the empty bowls, feeling its coolness against my palm. At the head of the table sat one imposing and solitary main seat, while the other chairs surrounded it, empty yet somehow full of presence.
And then I saw him—the man—seated at the table with his family. His expression was cold and angry, as if my presence had intruded on their evening meal. Just as he reached out to grasp my arm, I instinctively moved it away. In an instant, they vanished, leaving only an unsettling silence in their wake. Startled, I pressed on, my heart racing as I continued deeper into the unknown.
The corridors stretched on impossibly. I had expected a small home, but the cabin seemed to defy physics itself. Hallways branched into other hallways. Doorways led to rooms I hadn't seen before, each one dimly lit by candles that burned with an oddly colorless flame. The wooden walls pressed closer the farther I ventured, and the air grew colder, tinged with the smell of earth and something else—something decaying.
I was searching frantically when I noticed it: a small door barely visible beneath the shadows of the staircase. It was low to the ground, the kind of door meant for storage, easily overlooked. I approached it cautiously, and the brass handle turned easily under my palm.
Inside was a cramped closet space. Shelves cluttered with dusty jars of preserves, stacks of linens, and old cooking implements. But there, on the bottom shelf, partially hidden behind a tin of flour, was something that made my heart stop.
A leather-bound book.
I knelt down and pulled it free, my hands trembling. The leather was soft with age, worn at the corners. No title marked the cover. I opened it carefully, and the spine cracked with the sound of something long sealed being broken open.
The pages were yellowed, the ink faded but still legible. And the handwriting—
My eyes widen.
It was my handwriting. The same loops on the g's, the same slant to the letters, the way I always crossed my t's a little too high.
My hands shook so violently I nearly dropped the journal as I read the first entry.
April 14, 1718: I write this in desperation, though I fear there is no one left to read it. The others tell me I have always been here, that I belong to this house, but I know—I KNOW—that isn't true. I remember another life, another time. I remember music from boxes without musicians, carriages that moved without horses, lights that blazed without fire. But each day, the memories fade a little more. Each day, I forget another piece of who I was.
I flipped forward, scanning entry after entry, each one dated in a chronological order that was anything but linear, yet describing moments I was experiencing right now. What was it with this place?
May 3, 1826: I tried to leave again today. The house brought me back. It always brings me back. The man sat at the head of the table and raised his hand—that terrible gesture that roots me to the spot. I remember a name. My name? Jennifer? No, perhaps Melissa? It slips away even as I try to hold it.
June 21, 1871: There was a girl today. A new girl. She appeared in the mud outside, just as I once did. I helped her up. I led her to the house because that is what I do now—what I have always done, they tell me. But when I looked into her eyes, I saw my own terror reflected back at me.
July 5, 1752: She's coming for me. I can feel it. The man is angry. He knows I'm remembering too much. If you find this, do not trust what you see. Do not let her in. I can hear the door rattling. She's here.
The pages blurred as tears welled in my eyes, but I kept reading, watching my handwriting deteriorate from desperate clarity to something more resigned. The last line faded into an ink blot, the urgency palpable. I continued to search for anything that might offer a clue to how I could return to my life—my simple yet rewarding life that I had once taken for granted. Just then, a creak of a floorboard echoed through the room, followed by footsteps that stopped at the door. My heart raced as the door began to open, and instinctively, I hid my journal beneath my trembling hands. I wanted more. I wanted out. I braced for whatever, or whoever, was about to enter.