The House on Kodi Street (My Dream Story)

 

"The House on Kodi Street"
By Deedee Jebrail

The house on Kodi Street had been vacant for years—its frame decaying, paint peeling, windows always closed. Then, almost overnight, it was reborn. New paint, glowing windows, stylish furniture that didn’t match the age of the place. It was like someone had dressed a ghost in silk and perfume.

A woman moved in. Elegant. Effortless. The type of person who makes old spaces look intentional. She was standing on the newly swept porch when I arrived with my son and a young blonde girl—. My son clutched his sketchpad, quiet as always. The blonde girl, giggling and curious, ran ahead of us, already exploring the creaky corners of the house.

Inside, we sat and sipped tea from delicate porcelain cups that didn’t match. I found myself talking about Kodi, a friend who used to live here. “I really liked her,” I told the woman, though my voice felt far away. “There was something about her—like the house loved her.”

The woman nodded, a knowing glint in her eye. “This place remembers people,” she said softly.

Then we noticed the girl was gone.

Panic flickered in my chest. I stood abruptly. “I have to find her,” I said. “She wouldn’t just wander off.” We searched every room, but it was the sound of the toilet flushing that caught our ears. The bathroom door creaked open.

She stepped out—barefoot, shaking. Not the same girl. Her skin was grey-blue, lips pale, cheeks sunken like something had drained the life out of her in a matter of minutes. Her bright hair clung to her face, and her eyes were hollow. I gasped, hand to my mouth.

“What happened to you?” I whispered. “Why is there… blood?”

We looked back. The water had overflowed. Not from the toilet—but from a stone fountain in the hallway I hadn’t noticed before. It was old, carved into the wall, with dark water that pulsed like a heartbeat. A statue of Ganesha loomed at the end of the basin. Water spilled from its trunk, stained deep red.

The woman was calm. “She found the fountain,” she said. “Some children do.”

I wrapped the girl in my arms. She trembled like something had followed her back from wherever she’d gone.

“She never wants to leave now,” I told the woman. “Even before this, she was drawn here.”

My son stood near the hallway, his sketchpad now discarded. He was quietly peeling photos from an old family album we found on the bookshelf—removing faces carefully, methodically.

“He does that when people die,” I murmured, watching him. Then, almost without thinking, I asked, “Will you do that when I die?”

He didn’t answer. Just kept peeling.

From the far room, Katy appeared—my old friend. Her sister behind her, silent and pale, like a faded memory that had walked back into the light. They didn't speak. Just looked toward the hallway.

The woman turned to the window. The view was breathtaking—like we were no longer in a city but somewhere above it all, watching from another realm. She sighed, “It really is so nice here.”

Then, quieter, she added, “Though some say it’s haunted.”

This is a Story created in my Dreams