My family and I recently moved into a new house, and I am not happy about it at all. We used to live in the suburbs, but now, we live in the middle of nowhere. Absolutely nowhere. I have to drive 30 minutes if I want to do anything. My friends, the mall, any park, grocery stores, even gas stations—it’s a 30 minute drive. I absolutely hate everything about being here. I don’t even like this house. When my parents showed me the “perfect house” they found online, I had to hold back my tears until getting back into my room. Actually stepping foot into it makes it worse. It makes my skin crawl.

I could never tell my parents this. I want to tell them how I feel, but, for some reason, I feel like I can’t, so I don’t. They love their new house more than anything, and it’s the “perfect house” for when I leave for college and they retire. I am moping in my room when I hear an enthusiastic knock on my bedroom door. 

“How are you liking it so far?” my mom asks as she peeks her head out from behind the door. It felt like I was waiting for an eternity waiting for a response to pop up in my head. While I was waiting for my response to appear, my eyes fixated on the beads of water dripping from her curls. I had no idea what to say, and I was starting to feel warm—this is how nervous I am about telling my parents the truth, I guess.

“Awesome, just chilly,” I was still thinking of a response as the words came out of my mouth. She walked away to unpack more boxes from the garage before I could back-pedal or stutter on my text sentence. Unfortunately, I finally figured out exactly what I would say if she asked me that again or if my dad asked me.

“Well, it is too cold. I am constantly shivering, and it is getting worse and worse. Every part of the floor creaks, I can hear every footstep anyone in this house takes. I am isolated from everyone and everything, my bedroom door never stays shut, my window won’t seal, and I have no service. Our power goes out, and the water heater barely works. Not to mention, my parents keep moving my stuff around.” 

That’s exactly what I would say, but I can’t. I would look ungrateful and unhappy for my parents. I can’t ruin their happiness even though I’m miserable. It’s not like they’ll get rid of their brand new house just because I don’t like it—I’m going away to college in less than a year anyway. I didn’t necessarily enjoy our old house, but it was familiar. I can’t stop thinking of my real home—not this dilapidated house. None of the doors or windows shut completely, so I can never escape the chilly draft crawling through the house. I am miserable. My mom must be able to read my thoughts, because, as I thought that, I heard both of my parents mumbling outside of my room. 

“She needs to be more grateful,” my mom said this angrily. I had said nothing to my parents about not liking the house, so how’d they know?

“She’s a brat. You know she is a brat. She has never been appreciative of what we do for her,” my dad kept going about my ungratefulness and rudeness. I can’t stand to listen to the conversation any longer, so I get out of bed, firmly plant my feet into the ground, and walk to my almost-shut door. I pull the door open to an empty hallway and a cold front—it’s colder than usual. Surprisingly, I am tired of moping in my room. I decided to join my parents in the kitchen despite the defamatory conversation I had just witnessed.

“Hi, sleepy head.” That is how I was greeted by my dad. I will never understand how people act so nice after talking about you behind your back. I think about it a little longer, and I decide to confront my parents about their conversation I overheard.

“Why would you say that about me?” I question my dad.

“Say what?” he appeared genuinely puzzled when he said this.

“You and mom… were talking about me… outside of my room,” I said this firmly and matter-of-factly. 

“We’ve been in the kitchen all day, sweetie. I-” 

“You should try to eat something, Rhylee,” my dad says, interrupting my mom. This made me give up on the conversation. I walk back upstairs. My door is wide open. I am not too alarmed—a draft probably blew it open, but something was different. The hall was no longer cold; the air was stagnant and thick. It felt humid now. Once I walk through the door’s frame into my room, I realize where all the cold air in the house went. The temperature in my room probably dropped to almost freezing. I know I do not like the house, but now I know that there is something seriously wrong going on in here. 

I close my door so that I can try to forget about this weird day and awful house. As I am laying down in my fresh new sheets on my new bed, I hear a crash downstairs. “It’s okay!” my mom yells upstairs—she must have dropped a pan. Seconds after hearing my mom confirm they are okay, I hear footsteps walk past my room.

“She doesn’t like it here—we should leave,” my “mom” says this—I hear it come from down the hall rather than downstairs where my mom yelled out seconds ago. Maybe I am going crazy, maybe I am dreaming, I do not know. Either way, I am freaked out and need help. I jump out of bed, bolt downstairs, and find my parents cooking in the kitchen. 

“Somebody’s here,” I scream at them. I haven’t had time to process what is going on yet. I just know there are more people here than me, my mom, and my dad, and we need to leave immediately. They are just staring at me in confusion, pausing their half-way-cooked dinner to stare at me like a deer in headlights. Two screams from upstairs break my gaze away from my parents—my parents are screaming, but my parents are sitting right next to me, looking at me. What is going on?

My head darts back to look at my mom and dad, but they aren’t right next to me anymore. I turn around—they are behind me, staring. I try to come up with a way to describe the expression on their faces, but I simply can’t. There is no expression, they look like empty shells of my parents. There are still screams coming from upstairs. I change my mind, and I decide that these people in the kitchen are not my parents. I run back upstairs—it’s colder than ever—pass my bedroom, run to my parents bedroom at the very end of the hallway, and I immediately push the door open. Nobody is there. I stand in the doorway for a few seconds because I am unsure how to process what I am seeing. Their room is empty, exactly how it was left. 

Another bang comes from downstairs. Without thinking about what I should do next, I make my decision. There really are not many options for me—I cannot hide from them forever. I feel for my keys in my pocket; a slight panic shoots through me when I don’t feel them. Luckily, I remember they are sitting on my dresser because they felt uncomfortable in my pocket. I ran faster than I thought I could back into my room, which is now somehow colder than before—I would have never guessed that was possible. With too much panic to stop and look at the things in the kitchen, I dart out of the front door after grabbing my car keys, but I still get a glimpse of their shadows in the kitchen and a faint smell of something burning. 

I am not thinking about anything for the first half of my 30-minute commute. My mind was dead set on my destination: the nearest police station. About 20 minutes into the drive, I realize how hot it is in my car; I turn the air conditioning on and continue my drive. 

When I get to the police station, I immediately park my car—I do not even check if I am parked in a parking spot. I run inside and start looking around, overwhelmed by everything that has happened today. The daze I am in breaks when I see my mom and dad running up to me.

“Rhylee! You’re here! We thought we lost you—what happened?” I am unsure what to say. My parents proceeded to reassure me that we would never go back to the house, and we would be staying with my aunt until we found a new place to live. I can’t do anything but stand in silence. My parents moved closer and gave me a hug. I am not sure if I am just paranoid, but my mom’s skin feels colder than normal.