Little White House

a short story about a little white house where many go in but no one comes out

In the snow-covered valley sits a little white house, where many go in but no one comes out.

People go there when the sickness claims them. My sister left last week. I begged her to stay but her eyes looked past me and the storm did not touch her as she walked out of the village and the snow swallowed her footsteps.

Yesterday, I brewed hot tea and struggled through the squall until I entered a strange valley where no wind stirs and no birds sing and silence covers the world like fresh snow. I stood outside the little white house and looked through the darkened window. For a moment I saw a face, strange and pallid. A face so familiar. not like my sister’s face, but like my own.

I ran all the way home.

This morning I woke with fever and chills. I dream now, even when I am awake. I see the house. The face in the window. the door opens and two thin, pale arms invite me in.

Now I know my home has never been here in the village, among these people who live in fear of storms and sickness and darkened windows.

My home has always been out in the valley, in the silence of a little white house, where many go in but no one comes out.

Short story written by Peter Chiykowski

Story prompt taken from a photo by MaxPixel