In 1995, I attended college at Louisiana State University in Baton Rouge, LA. In entering that year's fall semester, I
was a senior, soon to graduate from the medical field.
One weekend, I hopped in my car and took a trip to visit my mother who lived in Jackson, MS, just about 3 1/2 hours
drive from Baton Rouge. Half way between the two cities was a city called McComb. As I drove down the highway, I tuned into sappy love songs playing on the radio. I felt totally relaxed and comfortable. Just as I was driving into a rural
part of the city I noticed on the right side of the highway there stood a small, white poster board hung on a thin pole that said, "house for sale" and beneath it was an arrow pointing right to a small, dusty, isolated path.
I thought I'd check it out since I needed somewhere to stay after school. I slowed down my car, pulled to the shoulder
and hit reverse to the path. After driving 15 minutes along the path, the house appeared in my sight. It was a white,
two story house with a huge front porch. Impressed with its beauty, I didn't notice that oddly the house sat in such
isolation. I pulled up to the driveway and grabbed a Polaroid camera out of my bag. I wanted to take pictures of
the house to show them to my mother. If this were to be my future home, I would definitely want my mother's opinion on it.
I walked up the steps and into the spacious porch. Some
pots of plants stood around the area and a wooden table sat
in the center. I walked to the front door and gave it a
couple of knocks. A short moment after, the front door
opened and there stood an old lady dressed in black pants
and a brown shirt. She was short, kind of stubby and had a
head full of grays. She greeted me with, "Hi there!" as if
she had expected me. I snapped pictures of every room in
the house as she toured me. Pulling my car from the
driveway of the house and back onto the dusty path, I felt
a sense of happiness and excitement swept over me. I
thought to myself that I had finally found the house of my
dream at a very affordable price.
A week later, I stopped at Wal-Mart to pick up the films
that I had dropped off for development. I came back to my
apartment and immediately called my mother to tell her that
I was going to drive to her place to show her the pictures.
I reached in my bag and grabbed the yellow envelope with
the photos inside. I pulled them out. I took a quick peek.
I screamed. I dropped the stack of photos from my hands
along with the telephone from between my head and shoulder
I quickly jumped back, away from the photos. Frozen in
disbelief I stood there staring down to the floor at them.
I didn't realize that my mother was still on the other line
saying over and over, "Are you alright, dear?" After a long
moment of being in the state shock and confusion, I was
able to get myself together again. I finally found the
courage to drop to the floor and examine the photos
closely. They were not the pictures of my dream house but
those of a burned down one. Every picture was of a room in
charcoal black as if it had been devoured by a fierce fire.
The state of shock and confusion quickly turned into fear.
I picked up the photos and burned them immediately without
any thought of explanation.
That same day, I hopped into my car, drove back to McCOmb
and back onto the same highway. Anxiety and nervousness
filled my head as I drove slowly down the highway in search
of the "house for sale" poster board and the isolated, dusty
path. To my surprise I did not find either one. I kept
driving back and forth, eager to find it but without luck.
From that day on, I've never been the same. If someone
tells me I've gone mad, I believe it. Even my psychologist
thinks I'm delusionally sick. Perhaps I am, but who can
really say what's real and what's not? Sometimes I regret
burning those photos. Maybe if I still had them, then maybe
people wouldn't question my sanity.
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