We called ourselves Freedom House. Nestled in the depths of the woods where we had everything we ever needed: food, water, and a community where love, peace, and freedom were the purpose of living and the center of our lives. At least, that's what it started out to be.
I was only fourteen when I met Peter but at that time he already disowned that name and called himself Miles. Miles was age twenty when I met him at the corner of Broadway and 7th. He was making a water run and smoking a Menthol, something forbidden at Freedom House.
I tried bumming a cigarette from him but was unsuccessful the instant he looked at me and told me tobacco kills. Ironically enough, Miles and I didn't die from tobacco. We would kill ourselves 3 years later lying on the drenched bed at the bottom of the redwood floor and staring up at the circular piece of sky adorned by the tallest points of the redwoods.
Miles asked me why I needed a cigarette. I told him it was the one thing I could look forward to each day. And that was all I needed to say. I was welcomed with open minds and open arms at Freedom House. The entrance was inviting in a way that I didn't know why but I wanted to move toward it. There was a white picket fence with vine growing and twisting around each fence panel. Behind the fence, lay a lush garden with tomatoes, squash, carrots, and herbs. This would be the garden that killed us all.
Then I noticed something. Something unusual and strange but nothing serious at a glance. On the fence and on the front door there was a symbol painted. Two small horizontal lines, side by side and one vertical line underneath down the center, like a letter T. There was one circle on the left side of the vertical line and one on the right side.
As we walked through the garden, past the gazebo, and down a small stone path to the blue door with that symbol, Miles extended his arm out and I saw the symbol tattooed on his forearm. He said, "Welcome to Freedom House."
This is Chapter 1 of a book in the making called Freedom House. Stay tuned for Chapter 2 of Freedom House.
-Written by Sterp
All Rights Reserved
I am Sterp. I write horror fiction and have a very unhealthy obsession with disturbing narratives. As long as they make me lose sleep then I'm happy. Fun fact: I am also a Buddhist.