I don’t have too many memories of my childhood home on Foxtrot Lane. Considering my family moved quite often, I’d say it was one of the least memorable homes I had stayed in. Whenever I’d try to think of details from the old house, I’d only ever imagine washed out colors, a yard of dead grass covered in brown leaves, and old kitchen appliances. My mother, on the other hand, loved the house on Foxtrot Lane. She spoke of it frequently, recalling all the wonderful stories of when I was little. She would then finish up with the line, “Ohhh, you were too young to remember. ” And she was somewhat right—I could only ever recall bits and pieces. But even though my memories were somewhat fragmented, they were still always there. I remember the times we made whirlpools in the above ground pool, or when I’d practice ballet up and down the hallway near the front door, and those tiny yellow plastic chairs I’d sit on while eating macaroni and cheese in the living room. The memories were all still there—just a bit faded. Which is why I was surprised when my mother, going on one of her many story telling tangents, mentioned a portrait of a white goat that hung up in that old house.
Apparently, I was obsessed with this portrait, “from the moment I laid eyes on it,” she said. She told me how I would spend most of my time sitting in front of that painting, either drawing or writing. Some days I would just stand there for hours on end staring at it, examining the minute details. “There were times you’d even ask if your father and I could get you a pet goat,” she chuckled. “All those little girls your age wanted ponies and horses and all you wanted was that white goat in the painting.”
I couldn’t understand why I had no recollection of this painting whatsoever—a painting in which I supposedly spent a great deal of my time with. There was even a point where I wondered if she was making the whole story up to test my memory. But that thought was quickly extinguished when she pulled out an old family photo album.
"How can you honestly not remember?" she asked while flailing an old polaroid in the air. I grabbed the photo from her hand, examining the face of the little girl, wondering if it was actually me. And without a doubt, it was. I was wearing a small, pink jacket with the hood on, and blankly staring at the camera. And oddly enough, I was standing in front of a painting of a scene of a white goat standing alone in a dark forest. The trees in the distance were slightly arched over, as to form a tunnel leading into the darkened woods. And the goat, well the image of it sent chills down my spine. Its eyes—there were no pupils, just two completely white circles staring directly at the viewer. I looked through the rest of the photo album, and the others were no different from the first.
"W-what happened to it?" I stammered.
"Oh, it’s probably still hanging in that house on Foxtrot Lane," she replied nonchalantly, as though the portrait was no different than a painting of a sunny meadow. "Anyway, it’s late and you should be getting to bed," she said as she grabbed the album out of my hands.
That night, I had terrible dreams, dreams that paralyzed my entire body. I envisioned standing in a dark house, staring up at that damned portrait. My eyes could not shift away, and I felt as though it were now burned into my mind, planting strange and horrible thoughts. I dreamt that I began to follow the white goat into that darkened pathway, so deep into the forest that I could no longer see its ivory coat and could only navigate by the sounds of its hooves rustling the dried leaves. I wanted to turn around so badly, but I was no longer in control of my body when finally, the sensation of cold droplets on my skin woke me up.
I was standing at the edge of the forest, my feet covered in dirt. “Lucy!” I could hear my mother calling from the front porch. “What are you doing?” I had to gather my thoughts before I realized that I had sleepwalked all the way out of the house. I turned around and began running toward the front door as the rain began to pour. “What on earth are you doing?” My mother asked again as I reached the porch, but before I could give her an explanation she continued, “Why did you stop?” I looked at her confused, and without saying another word, she lifted her arm and pointed to the forest. And that’s when I saw it. Two completely white eyes staring at me from deep within the woods.
"Why did you stop walking?" she asked.
—
Credits to: robotsynthesis (terror-tortellini.tumblr.com)
I couldn’t understand why I had no recollection of this painting whatsoever—a painting in which I supposedly spent a great deal of my time with. There was even a point where I wondered if she was making the whole story up to test my memory. But that thought was quickly extinguished when she pulled out an old family photo album.
"How can you honestly not remember?" she asked while flailing an old polaroid in the air. I grabbed the photo from her hand, examining the face of the little girl, wondering if it was actually me. And without a doubt, it was. I was wearing a small, pink jacket with the hood on, and blankly staring at the camera. And oddly enough, I was standing in front of a painting of a scene of a white goat standing alone in a dark forest. The trees in the distance were slightly arched over, as to form a tunnel leading into the darkened woods. And the goat, well the image of it sent chills down my spine. Its eyes—there were no pupils, just two completely white circles staring directly at the viewer. I looked through the rest of the photo album, and the others were no different from the first.
"W-what happened to it?" I stammered.
"Oh, it’s probably still hanging in that house on Foxtrot Lane," she replied nonchalantly, as though the portrait was no different than a painting of a sunny meadow. "Anyway, it’s late and you should be getting to bed," she said as she grabbed the album out of my hands.
That night, I had terrible dreams, dreams that paralyzed my entire body. I envisioned standing in a dark house, staring up at that damned portrait. My eyes could not shift away, and I felt as though it were now burned into my mind, planting strange and horrible thoughts. I dreamt that I began to follow the white goat into that darkened pathway, so deep into the forest that I could no longer see its ivory coat and could only navigate by the sounds of its hooves rustling the dried leaves. I wanted to turn around so badly, but I was no longer in control of my body when finally, the sensation of cold droplets on my skin woke me up.
I was standing at the edge of the forest, my feet covered in dirt. “Lucy!” I could hear my mother calling from the front porch. “What are you doing?” I had to gather my thoughts before I realized that I had sleepwalked all the way out of the house. I turned around and began running toward the front door as the rain began to pour. “What on earth are you doing?” My mother asked again as I reached the porch, but before I could give her an explanation she continued, “Why did you stop?” I looked at her confused, and without saying another word, she lifted her arm and pointed to the forest. And that’s when I saw it. Two completely white eyes staring at me from deep within the woods.
"Why did you stop walking?" she asked.
—
Credits to: robotsynthesis (terror-tortellini.tumblr.com)
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