From Your Friends at the Farmbrook HOA

Flash Fiction

Image courtesy of Zac Gudakov via Unsplash.

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[Letter from Carly McDowell, President of the Farmbrook Homeowners Association, Westfield, MI. Hand-delivered by Ms. McDowell on September 7th, 2023, along with a sheaf of other documents.]

Don’t read any of this aloud. We aren’t as alone as you think we are. It sounds crazy, but I’m begging you, please read this silently to the end. Believe me, I wouldn’t give you this letter if I didn’t have to. It’s not just bad for my reputation. It’s bad for the subdivision too if this gets out. But God help you, you’ve seen the house. The signs are subtle but unmistakable. I’ve learned to spot them from trial and far, far too much error.

Which house? You probably know already. It never looks like the other houses in the neighborhood; all of them pleasant variations on the same theme. Maybe it looks the same way to you as it does to me. A rundown, dust-colored bungalow with a front porch that sags in the middle like it’s rotting from the inside out. It’s been described in a lot of different ways over the years: a homestead, a log cabin, a longhouse. Probably others too. Whatever its form, it will always seem dilapidated and strangely ancient somehow. It doesn’t choose its appearance to be inviting because it doesn’t have to. As long as you’re living in this neighborhood, it will find some way to lure you inside. it’s just a matter of how and when. There’s a good chance that you won’t even realize where you are until the door closes behind you. I take a lot more precautions than most people, and even I have nearly been duped by it. The house is cunning and, above all, patient. It has been doing this for a very long time.

No doubt you’re skeptical, and you’re right to be. There’s no way to make a claim like that without sounding like you’ve completely lost your mind. Trust me, I’ve been doing this for nearly ten years now, and nobody ever believes me from the start. That’s what this packet’s for. Flip past the coupons and fliers for local restaurants and you’ll find photocopies of every single scrap of evidence I’ve found. Every newspaper article detailing yet another strange disappearance, every eyewitness account, every shred of local history that might possibly convince you. Old school, yes, but it’s the best way I’ve found to make sure you actually read it.

Even with all this, you’ll still have to make a leap of faith. What I’m asking you to believe sounds insane, and what I’m asking you to do is even more so. You need to move. Not to some other suburb here in town. Not even to the next town over. You need at least a hundred miles of distance from here, and more if you can manage it. This is the less disruptive option, believe it or not. Very few people can regulate their thoughts the way I do, and I don’t trust my ability to teach you. As for the distance, I’ll just say this. Have you ever taken a familiar road instead of the one you were supposed to take? Walked into a room and forgot why you were there? You probably have, because nobody can pay attention all the time. Not even me. The distance is there to protect you. It gives you time to realize your mistake before it’s too late.

So, I guess that’s about it. I can’t make you go. I wish I had some better way to convince you, but I don’t. The best proof I can offer will be the last. The house will catch me one day, just as it caught every other would-be guardian in the end. You can’t defy the unknowable forever. All you can do is make yourself ready for the day when it comes.