I used to be a beacon for ideas. When I was a child, my mind tended to wander quite a bit. So much so, my teachers would beg my parents to see a specialist for a potential ADHD diagnosis, but I’m sort of glad they didn’t. I’d draw my own comics, paint illustrious new worlds, and would make blueprints for inventions I’d want to create. I always felt my wandering mind was my super power.

One time when I was ten, I looked out my bedroom window during a pretty severe storm and saw a stranger staring at our house. They were covered in black and just stood there staring through our living room window as they were getting pelted by rain drops. Maybe they were just looking for cover from the storm, but that moment left me with a pretty restless that night. The one positive was that it made for some great inspiration for the drawing I had made about it. I ran downstairs in our warm midwestern home, while my dad sat in his favorite chair with his signature glass of bourbon right by the fire. He looked at my drawing, “This one is your best one yet, champ! Very very spooky!”

My smile faded. I now stood in front of my office window staring at what seemed like a lifeless city. To be honest, I don’t remember the last time I felt really good about anything I had created. My life goal was to create something impactful, something people would remember. I wanted to be an innovator - but here I was stuck writing articles and interviewing others about their achievements and life accomplishments.

At some point during my life, my mom became religious. Her way of cheering me up was to try to turn me onto God and that ‘seeking out a higher power may help me’. “I know you’ve been through a lot honey, but you’ve got a good job, and they appreciate you. You’ll figure something out, just be patient. Rome wasn’t built in a day.” My mind was once my super power, but now it was my worst enemy.

“Hey RJ! Someone dropped this off for you while you were on lunch.” Our admin assistant Amy decided to barge in on my pity party. “Who dropped it off?” I asked as I curiously grabbed what seemed to be an invitation. “It was some lady going on about some art exhibit this Friday.” I stared at the invitation, Midtown Art Exhibit presents, ’A Burning Memory’.

I got to the exhibit a little late that Friday night to try to avoid the crowds. I was instantly greeted at the door by a young petite woman, who seemed rather excited to see me. “Mr. Dyer! It’s so nice to finally meet you! Noemi Cartwright - I’m the art gallery director.” She shot out her hand and shook mine with excitement.

“It’s been so crazy seeing everyone come in tonight, you should’ve seen the traction earlier! They love how immersive the exhibit is! I was actually just about to close up, but I’m so glad you were able to make it.”

I cut in, “Who’s the artist behind this exhibit?”

Noemi paused and stared at me in confused. “What do y-“ Just before she could answer, her phone went off - startling us both.

“I am so sorry, Mr. Dyer, I’ve got to take this. But go have a look!” Noemi shuffled away and took her call outside.

I walked through the doors and took in the exhibit’s immense scale. Everything looked so loud and in your face, as if someones head exploded and this was the end result - it gave me an instant feeling of dread. Looking through some of the initial paintings I could see the themes of death, hopelessness and despair. A pitch black specter seemed to be a reoccurring figure in each painting. The first few seemed to almost hide it. An image of an upside down car with an empty bicycle sat beside it while the ghostly figure was positioned from afar. A painting of a lonely boy with a horde of clown like smiling faces surrounding him.

Next was a portrait of a family in what would otherwise look like a warm fall day, in a comforting midwestern neighborhood. Yet, this portrait would be tainted by this specter, who was now nearly engulfing the image. It wasn’t hiding anymore…it was making it’s presence known as the details were becoming more vivid. Painting after painting was now just being overtaken by the specter.

I felt my anxiety rising as I noticed my sweaty hands had my notebook and pen in a vice grip.

I moved down a narrow hallway. The next set of paintings were all the same, painting of coffins surrounded by fiery blood red and orange splatters with small text, ‘It follows me, everywhere I go.’ The end of the hallway led to another large opening. I nearly collapsed as I saw what was in front of me…

It was my childhood home.

The exact same scale and everything. The once warm home - now looked old, broken and warped.

I ran back to the front of the exhibit to look for Noemi, but found nothing. Was she some kind of stalker? My instincts told me to run, but curiosity got the best of me. I went back.

As I stood in front of my old home, I took a deep breath and turned the handle. Stepping through I noticed the entryway, the mahogany staircase, every little detail was there. It even had the rich scent of pumpkin spice overtaking my aura. Slowly inching my way towards the kitchen, I looked on in amazement. There was my mom’s big spoon and fork decor hanging over our sink.

My gaze shifted to our living room which was dimly lit by one lamp. It was a much more depressing sight aside everything else. And then my heart nearly beat out of my chest when I saw it….someone was sitting in my dad’s favorite chair. It was dark, but I could see the outline of a dark figure. Nearly a foot away, I held my breath and turned the chair. I was semi-relieved to find a mannequin sitting in his place. It was wearing a short brown wig and had X’s where the mannequins eyes would be. The dimly lit lamp made it so I could now read the splattered red text on the wall behind the chair. It simply read, ‘it wasn’t there for you.’ Immediately a loud thumping sound emerged from above. It sounded as if someone ran up the stairs and ran across the room above me.

“Hello?…Noemi!?”

My patience was running thin, “This isn’t funny! What the hell is going on here?”

Someone was exploiting my life and passing it off as ‘art’. It wasn’t even remotely true, and yet, people found this entertaining? I felt an adrenaline spike and stomped my way up the stairs. I wanted to confront whoever the hell was messing with me.

A framed portrait was at the top of the stairs with a newspaper clipping of the obituaries and big red writing painted over it which read, ‘you never woke up, did you?’ The loud thumping sound rushed past me and nearly gave me a heart attack. I slammed the wall in frustration realizing it must have been built in speakers. I kept pace and continued my trek until I reached my parents room on the right side of the hallway. I could hear a sobbing sound from within. My adrenaline spike must have faded because I was thoroughly terrified again. My hand shook as I pushed the door to reveal my parents bed with someone laying in it. Against my better judgement, I again went to confront this figure. Peeling back the covers - I was relieved to find it was just another mannequin with a much longer wig. Tears were painted under it’s eyes.

The last room I needed to see was my own, and sure enough - it was wide open. For some reason when I stepped through my door I felt everything was okay. That sense of dread I once had seemed to leave as my room felt like the only comfortable place in the entire house. It was well lit, it had everything in order with my desk in the corner near my window and all of my old favorite movie posters set up around the room. I closed the door to escape the sobbing and thumping sounds and sat at my desk to see a journal and some of my old comic books. My room was always a place I could go to escape. I stared at a drawing of a family left on the desk and realized that tears were beginning to form in my eyes.

My brief moment of peace was interrupted by a thunderous bang. Another sound effect. But it didn’t sound like thunder, it sounded like a gunshot. I stood up quickly and noticed something outside the window and froze in horror…someone, or something, was looking up at me from below. It was draped in black and almost seemed to be hovering a foot off the ground. I could see it’s cold grey and dead looking feet, as it began to rise higher. It had no other distinguishable features other than it’s black cowl and made a low groaning sound. My body was full-on shaking now as it floated closer towards my window. I couldn’t move. This being nearly met me at eye level as it’s features began to form into a familiar face. I realized I was standing on my window sill as I heard doors slamming from below while the thumping sound grew louder and then followed a piercing scream.

It felt as though I had blacked out. I came to and realized I was apprehensively being walked out of the exhibit by Noemi. “No one else was in the exhibit with us, Mr. Dyer…are you sure you’re okay? I feel like I should call someone, you almost fell out of a two story house.” The uneasy feeling left my body as we left the building, “No no, I’m sorry, it’s just been a long day. Seriously, I’ll be okay.”

The next morning I rolled over to see Noemi had left a voicemail checking up on me. A part of me wished what I saw wasn’t real. I thought that perhaps I should just ignore it and carry on as if it didn’t happen. But the other part of me knew exactly what it was. The paintings, the art and even the house - was all just a distraction . A culmination of pain, a burning memory. I understood now that the pain carried throughout that house did not have to continue channeling through me. I could escape the darkness within those walls and accept that my father’s death was not my fault and that I would not succumb to his same fate.

Deuteronomy 24:16