Iris was anxious- not in a worrying way, but in a twitchy and itchy way. Her fingers drummed on her desk all day, their rhythm steady yet eager. Her leg shook with anticipation. Her backpack was stuffed not only with school necessities, but also with her inspection pack, and the keys to a sibling’s car. She kept reaching down into it in the middle of her lectures, feeling its contents, checking again and again for the extra supplies packed.
Tonight was to be her first glance inside 303 Pinkerton Way.
She was excited to explore, as usual, but this time, she could feel herself getting nervous. There was, of course, a reason as to why 303 Pinkerton Way was left unexplored. It had its own sense of danger to it, danger that was enhanced by mystery and a hint of the unknown. After all, the house’s secrets were unknowable. Not even the newest previous owners knew precisely what forced them from their home. Yet Iris was determined to know 300 Pinkerton Way as intimately as possible, and she couldn’t wait another minute.
School let out later than she preferred, but she made it through the day, running to her sibling’s as soon as the bell rang. She drove the car a bit carelessly, too hyped by adrenaline to really be thinking about any sort of dangers on the road. This was the day Iris Ryan would begin to uncover the secrets of 303 Pinkerton Way. Nothing would deter or derail her. This was her day.
Iris pulled up to the street of Pinkerton Way slowly, almost forcing the car into a crawl. She drove past 303, ignored the urge to shiver, and quietly parked the car down the road a while, to the side of 321. She grasped her bag and swung it onto her shoulder. She pulled a baseball cap over her head, tucking her hair in. She took out a scarf that was on the passenger’s seat, contemplated wearing it, and then slipped it back into the car. She sighed, bracing herself, before making her way towards the house.
Iris reached the house with ease, barely noticing anything strange, even upon standing on the porch. The house was in less-than-perfect condition, sure, but that was expected. Aside from its exterior decay, nothing about the house seemed out of place. She reached a hand toward the knob, and as she did, the heavy door swung itself open. She tilted her head at it. No one appeared behind the door. Iris let herself in. The door did not close itself, so Iris struggled to close the heavy door, until she sighed and let it remain open.
The inside of the house was surprisingly immaculate, considering no one lived there. The wallpapers were intact, the rugs appeared vacuumed, the bookshelves lacked dust and the paintings lacked ruin. The lamps in the living room sprung to life as soon as Iris touched them. “New bulbs,” she muttered to herself, brushing the glass with her fingers. She walked around the living room, checking out all the decor, only to find all of it peculiarly new. She was just investigating a new and functioning radio when the banging began. Iris had never heard anything like it before. There were so many sound compressed into one very, very loud sound that it was nearly impossible to compare.
It sounded like a thousand pots and pans spilling out of a top-shelf cupboard.
It sounded like bulls fleeing.
It sounded like bass drums being pelted with bullets.
It sounded like an elephant’s roar, echoed and repeated.
The sound continued for five more minutes before it proved too loud for Iris. She sprinted out of the house, her hands pressed to her temples. The noise had been so loud, so shattering, that she could feel it pounding around in her head. Iris shuddered as she made it back to her car, rolling down the windows to let in the fresh air and whimpering as she sped down the street. Distracted by the blinding pain, Iris failed to notice how dark the skies had gotten. She failed to notice that she had forgotten to close the door. And she failed to notice her scarf escaping the car through the passenger’s side window. It slipped past her, past the car, drifting through the wind until it found itself latched onto the first solid object it touched: the railing of 303 Pinkerton Way.
As the car turned the corner, and Iris' scarf fluttered on the porch, Mr. Longfellow telephoned his ex-wife.
