The Secrets at Home

She got out of the car on a crispy cold day. Her breath was a warm mist as it danced through the air, it briefly fogged the vision before her before dancing on, passing behind her to twirl and dance and dissipate. It was a few seconds before she could see the beauty that was before her. Old red brick formed a house that stood dilapidated and cracked. There had been a few add-ons throughout the years, the varying colors of red attesting to the fact. They seemed to break like fragile high school hearts, withering away from years of neglect. She couldn’t find it in herself to care. Her whole life, she’d depended on someone to help her, take care of her. No more.

She was free now; the proof was in her hands as she shut the door with a resounding final clap. The old grey Buick seemed content with the rest bestowed upon it, having been on its final wheel coming up the last three hills. It nearly sighed in relief as the engine died.

She cautiously reached the first creaky step of the old porch, old and warped; they looked like snarled, arthritis ridden knuckles of an aging man.  The grey, rain- washed step groaned even under her meager weight, but they managed to hold. They would always hold her. The grass whispered as she passed, their last dying breath was faint as the wind carried their dry cries through the air. The flowers were too far gone, dead with her grandmother, it seemed.

What a shame. She thought as she looked around, pausing on the steps. Grandmother would have a fit if she ever saw this place.  She looked down at her feet, wrapped up in memories of the old days when she’d played in this very yard when her grandmother tried to patiently teach her to weed and till up the earth. It never took long for a game or story to invade her young mind and then she was off, her grandmother laughing as she raced off, barely hearing the call of “Don’t go too far!”

With a shake of her head, she was back into the present. With a sigh of her own she proceeded up the steps onto the porch. The porch actually looked well preserved, probably because of the roof over shadowing it, protecting it from the elements. With a few scuffs of her foot to make sure nothing was dry rotted, she soon moved her gaze to the door. It was solid oak, polished to perfection. The frosted glass set into the golden oak made her think of winter, which made her think of the tale her grandmother once told her.

“Grammy?” She asked in a soft voice, full of wonder and curiosity. “What’s that?” The young girl pointed to the window as the old woman smiled kindly at the child.

“It’s frost, Sweetie.” Her voice crackled like paper, old and ready to tear with the right amount of pressure.

“What’s frost?” She looked up at the woman and changed her question, “How’d it get there?”

“Fairies, Sweetie.” The old woman smelling of chocolate chips wrapped an arm around her as she knelt to her level. “They dance all night long, their footsteps frosting the glass and everything else they touch. Winter fairies are wonderfully sneaky. It’s considered bad luck to catch one, but good to see one.”

“I wanna see one!” The girl cried. “When could I see one?”

“Katie!” A voice called from the kitchen. “Katie! Time to eat!”

“OK Mommy!”

“Come on, we’ll finish talking about it later.”

Katie, now older, smiled at the memory as she slid her hand into her jean pocket to draw out the key. It was tarnished bronze just like the doorknob. It reminded her of the one from Alice in Wonderland. She giggled as she tried turning the knob, only to find the door swollen shut. “Oh come on!” She growled, putting a bit of her shoulder into it, hoping that would help.