Weimar, Germany

Published March 16, 2009

The house behind Carly’s building is curling into itself. The roof has caved in; the north side has slumped listlessly; vines hug the entire building and reach in through the shattered windows. Perhaps the vines are the only things holding it up.

I wake up with the sun and climb into the house through a second-floor window, wet leaves pressing against my face and soaking my sweater and pants. The house is not empty. A tarp flutters in the breeze, through an empty window frame upstairs. Rain patters against the roof, through the roof, through holes in the walls. Rain is everywhere. But there is something else in the house, something I can’t quite hear or see, but when I stand still and wait, I know it is there.

I hear footsteps high above me. Distinct. Plodding. Slow.

I run up the rotting stairs. I search the rooms. I stand still and listen. But it is gone, whatever it was. And so I will come back. And I will search again.