My mother's face turned pale, and her shoulders slumped like the weight of the world was thrown on her to carry. Her eyes, always carrying that exhaustion, seemed to get a little brighter; it was a little ominous. Either the guilt lighting her up from the inside out, or happiness before she burned out. She appeared to be a specter of her former self, depleted by her decisions. She looked like a ghost of herself, worn down by the choices she had made.
"Trish, honey," she choked on her own words. Her words trembled, barely audible as if she swallowed them.
"No, Mom, stop it! I can't believe you left me! You're the absolute worst!" My voice cracked, raw with emotion. My heart pounded in my chest, and the blood rushed to my head like a jet stream. I didn't care; I couldn't let her finish. She didn't need to have the last word every time.
"I didn't even have an inhaler," I muttered, which made the case even stronger. I turned sharply on my heel, grabbing Ki's hand as I went, pulling her along with me. She didn't look back, and I was glad she didn't say anything. My dad followed close behind, his eyes filled with concern but also guilt. He could've said something, but he knew that whatever he said wouldn't help my mom, so he moved on in silent agreement. The grave crunched under our feet as we moved away, leaving her standing there alone, swallowed by the long, dark shadows that stretched out from the fading sun to the ominous mansion.
She didn't follow; she just stood there. It might be from walking farther, but she seemed smaller and powerless with every step we took. The memory of her regret etched into her face was already more than I could ever bear. I didn't want her to feel like crap, but she shouldn't have left me. She wouldn't have seen me ever again, and I didn't know if it was intentional, but I didn't want to go out like that.
"Wow, it's not every day you get to witness some good old-fashioned family drama." The man chuckled, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He looked like he'd crawled out of a dumpster—his clothes were a hodgepodge of mismatched pieces, all faded and dull, as if they hadn't seen the inside of a washing machine for months. The jacket he wore was several sizes too big, its sleeves frayed and stained, while his pants sagged loosely, revealing a pair of worn-out shoes that looked ready to fall apart.
"Yeah, well, it's none of you." I started to retort, but he cut me off with another laugh; his teeth were yellowed and uneven. Maybe he needs the house more than anyone else.
"You're the problematic one, huh? There's always one in every family, I'm telling you." He grinned even wider, running a grimy hand through his greasy, black hair, the strands clumping together as if he superglued them to look neater. His whole appearance seemed shady, like someone who belonged in the shady corners of the city. A real estate broker would be my last guess.
As he stood there, still laughing, I couldn't help but feel a wave of embarrassment wash over me. I had paid this man, this sketchy, untrustworthy character, to show us this house. The idea of introducing him to my parents made my stomach churn. How could I even expect him to give us our money's worth? Just looking at him, I knew I'd made a mistake.
"Just give us the keys." I sighed, my patience wearing thin.
"Yeah, yeah, the keys," he muttered, fumbling in his pocket. His nails looked yellow and overgrown. Dad didn't look pleased at all. Infact, he refused to shake the man's hand when he extended it.
His tone was dismissive, as if he couldn't care less about the whole transaction. "I mean, we already signed the contract and stuff online, so I'll just email the documents to ya. Oh, and also, give me five stars on the website. I need some more clients." He flashed a crooked smile, the keys jangling in his grimy palms.
My eyes fixed on the set of old, rusted keys. They were heavy and cold, the metal worn from years of use. These were the keys to the Oakridge mansion—the very mansion rumored to have claimed seventeen lives.