Clarion West

­The kitchen is empty, the hallways, too. I walk with one hand against the wall, trying to keep my body as small as possible. In my mind, I turn over and over what the girls said. "Don't go into the house," or "No one goes into the house," or "You won't go into the house." It isn't until I smell the burning that I realize that even the usual scents of this place have been stilled. The smoky scent wafts towards me through a void, filling a space to show me that it was empty. I lift my hand from the wall and the scent immediately recedes a bit. Nervous, I turn a complete circle in the hallway, wanting to keep my back covered. The wall where I have already passed is now marked with three smoldering lines. The places where my fingertips touched the wallpaper. I snatch my hand away from the wall and look at the coal-black palm print that I've left behind.