Thirteen Brothers

We moves a lot. When I said a lot, I meant it was the twelfth time we moved since I was eight; since my mother died.
My dad was a novelist. Marcel Rayne, also known under the pen name of Locke Moort, wasn't really that famous of a writer but four of his works had already been published. He wrote science fiction and horror. Not many people liked those genres. He had sold more that five hundred copies of his latest book but I guess he was still waiting for his big break, which I doubted would ever come.
"Your room is upstairs." Dad muttered without even glancing back at me as he lugges our bags into the living room. "There's an en suite bathroom, like you wanted."
I nodded mechanically, even though I knew he wasn't looking. Marcel had wavy brown like mine and pale skin since he spent most of his time inside in front of his laptop. He wasn't exceptionally tall but somehow appeared lanky. At thirty-nine, he looked a little bit older than his age, perhaps owing to the constant crease on his forehead. He rarely smiled after mum died.
With a sniffm Dad looked around our new house, but as soon as he turned in my direction, he dropped his gaze and started to his truck to get the rest of our belongings.
Dad said it was necessary to move. He needed inspiration.
It had been a hard life being able to make friends but not being able to keep them. So in the long run, I learned to kepe myself distant from everybody else.
Well, not in Boston. We stayed there for almost three years; the longest record in our non-permanent address existence. I was so sure that we wouls stay there for good until that night Dad told me to pack up my things without so much as a plausible explanation. We left the morning after that, spending a wouple of weeks on the road or in hotels. No time to say goodbye to my friends. Excruciating as it was, I had to leave without any word. For all they care, I never really existed.
It was better that way. No sappy farewells . Just me and Dad disappearing from the neighbourhood like what had happened on the other eleven times we moved away.
With a deep sigh, I swept my eyes through our new home. The living room was spatious, with dark mahogany walls and light granite flooring. A wooden framed sofa was near the window facing the fireplace. A white marble slab centred the plush burgundy opadded seatd where an empty porcelain vase was placed. Most of the other furniture was dusty while the others were still swathed with white sheets.
To the right of the living room was the kitchen. Pale yellow curtains hung from the grimy panels of the windows. Like the first one, most of the fixtures were made of wood, though lighter in colour. In there was a two-burner stove, a conventional oven, the microwave we brought from Boston and an old single-door fridge. My Dad wasn't much of a cook so he kept it basic.
Just as i started to head up to my room, one of the cupboard doors creaked open. I stifled a cry and loooked around. No wind. The windows were all closed. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up as a shudder shot down my spine. There was an eerie chill in the air. Suddenly I felt the need to run but it was if my feet were buried in the ground.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
My heart raced, surged in my throat. I gulped and told mself to relax but it seemed impossible. There was defintely something wrong with this house.
I nearly jumped upon hearing shuffling feet behind me. With my breathing suddenly becoming ragges, I spun around in a fraction of a second.
"Dad!" I cried, sighing with relief as I saw him carrying on of those three bronze skull sculptures he loved to use as bookstands.
"What's wrong with you? Seen any ghosts?" He muttered with a tone between indifference and sarcasm.
"W-what are you talking about Dad? Ghosts aren't real." I managed a pretentious snigger and stepped out of the kitchen.
"Of course," he chided.
I hated creepy things. My dad just adored them. He kept skull key chains and sculptures, books about witchcraft, lycanthropy, spirits and all sorts of weird supernatural beings. It wouldn't take a genius to figure out why he chose this place of all states in America.
Ashland, Pennsylvania.