On my way out to a show I am rehearsing for rests this old run-down house, history seeping out of its dilapidated boards, windows hanging off its hinges, the screen door swung permanently open. For all of my life, houses of this nature have held extreme intrigue, as I think we all do, pondering who lived there, what their lives' were like, the children that grew up in the home, the laughter and voices of the past a mere echo off the walls.
However, this time, I was unable to extinguish my curiosity and with time to spare, I pulled into the over-run with weeds driveway and parked. I got out, cautiously, peering around for prying eyes, afraid the neighbors would come upon me with threats to leave this private property. But, none such neighbor appeared as I gingerly made my way up to the front door. Not only did I find the screen door open, but the front door itself stood wide open, cobwebs bridging the gap between the frame and the door. I brushed them aside and cautiously stepped inside, the deep silence over-taking me with the realization that the history of a long-ago family was still somehow present. I took a deep breath and held it a moment, feeling as if I was in a sort of cemetery, the death, loss, and burial of this home brought on a quiet reverence as I walked about the room. I took in the beautiful yet faded and dirty green marble in the entry way leading to the winding stairway that led to the upstairs bedrooms. A wall-papered wall was leaning against the frame of the house, a remnant of a 1950s style kitchen. Spiders had now become the family in residence after its human inhabitants had long since left. I stood in front of a bay window in what once might have been the living room and stared outward, dreamily wondering who had sat there, what they had thought, what circumstances had been present in their lives at the time. In another room, a beautiful ornate fireplace sat in the corner of the room, with garbage bags full of debris piled about, from workers preparing to clean up, re-model the place.
I gingerly stepped up the stair-case and moved about the three bedrooms, the most intriguing being the room that still had child stickers plastered to the door. They were probably unable to take that off when they moved out, I thought, recalling my own sticker I had placed atop the window of my room and still there to this day. This was probably a child's room at one point as I walked through the open door. The floor boards were sagging a bit on the adjacent covered porch, so I merely stood at the bedroom's window and peered out. Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I caught a glimpse of a small boy, perhaps around 3 or 4 year old, standing on the porch, peering through the window. I thought I saw the slight memory of the outline of his impish face in the window. I shook my head and walked back downstairs and out the door to my car, heading to my final destination, rehearsal.
A few days later, I was taking a day trip with some friends and happened to past 1958 S. Stage Road.
"Let's stop here," I said, pulling my car into the driveway yet again.
"Wait, isn't it trespassing?" one friend commented. I shook my head and laughed, reassuring him that everything would be okay. They followed me up to the porch, my friend who had warned me brushing away the cobwebs from the door, before pushing it open and entering. The three of us walked about.
"Look bodies," one friend joked, pointing at the piles of black bags stacked near the fire place. We both laughed, but all three of us still held the reverence for the history soaked within the walls and open frame of the house. I alone journeyed upstairs again, but one friend stood part way up on the staircase as I pointed to the door with the stickers.
"Huh," was all he would say.
As I walked up the stairs, I saw the outline of white soft curtains blowing in the open adjacent window. Weird, I thought, my eyes were playing tricks on me.
But, as I continued to step upwards, the world around me began increasingly to change, almost swirling about in a dizzying Alice In Wonderland-esque feel. Suddenly, I was caught up in the world of the house's past. Carpets lined the floor, music from a radio trickled up from the living room below, a gentle hum of a dish-washer, the walls were in place of the empty frames. And, the door with the stickers was closed, but a child's voice emanated from within, the presence of my friends' below had disappeared as I had fallen down into the rabbit hole into the past.
Cautiously, I turned the knob on the door with the stickers and,
The very same boy who I had thought I had seen sat on the floor of his bedroom, playing with his toy cars. He glanced up at me when I entered and his eyes were filled with horror, not at the sight of me but at another presence in the room. His little self seemed to plead with me for some sort of far-away protection or change to his current existence. I turned towards the adjacent corner of the room, where now a small bed was and sitting atop it was a very old lady, quietly and yet ominously because her very body held a foreboding sense, knitting. She looked up at me sternly, her eyebrows knitting into a stern and it was if a growl emerged from within her small frame. The little boy whimpered beside me, begging for assistance.
"Who do you think you are?" the old woman asked, not to me or the little boy, but as if addressing the room. I was speechless, unable to move. She slowly got up and came over to me. Barely reaching my shoulders, yet her nearness made me tremble. In a flash, she grabbed my arm with her bony fingers, cold and firm so I could not break away.
"This house was mine," came a whispered shriek. I held as still as possible trying to still my shaking frame. Suddenly, her eyes widened and it was if I saw a movie unfolding within them.
A young bride approached the house, suddenly being swooped up by a handsome dashing soldier. I realized this was the old lady before me. They entered the house, the image like an old film, laughing and let the door close behind them. Images of time flooding through her eyes, of a family of four children emerging, running about the house, dinner at the table, Christmas mornings, children leaving home, a wedding in the backyard beautiful in its arrayed finery. Then, the sad day when the young bride watched her handsome, dashing soldier being pushed out on stretcher never to return.
Then, the image turned to old woman's daughter and new husband moving their new family in, the old woman growled then,
"They tried to ostracize me from my own home, lock me away in an assisted living, more like prison. But I got the best of them. One time I came for a visit, I was with their little son in his room, the room that was once mine and I knew this was my chance."
She started backing towards me, the little boy cowering in the corner, whimpering. I realized then what was about to happen and stepped between her and him.
"But this time," she continued, "I will leave no survivors, no one to know of my guilt, my duty to my husband."
She seemed to grow larger than as I fell to my knees, protecting the boy from her grasp with my body.
"Please," I begged, the boy echoing me from some distant reality. Her bony fingers clasped harder onto my arm and she pulled with an unbelievable strength onto the now stable covered porch, the boy trailing after me, his arms around my leg. I fell to the ground, clinging the boy against my chest.
"You won't get away from this," the woman explained with a snarl. She reached for me to pull me towards an open window, but before I could hesitate, I pushed wildly with my feet, kicking her tiny frame. Closing my eyes, I heard a violent scream, glass shattering, and the thud of the old woman's voice below. The boy clung to me, both of us sobbing.
Hours seemed to pass, or perhaps it was mere moments. My friends found me, hovering in the corner, covered in spiders, sobbing.
"What the hell?" one asked. I shook my head, wiped my tears with my sleeve, shakily got up and ran to the door, tossing my other friend the keys to my car.
As we drove away, I saw the boy, now a young man, leaning against the frame of the front door. He nodded at me, smiling his gratitude.
(Dedicated to one of the best teachers ever and finest ghost story-teller ever, Mr. J. I hope I did his story-telling some justice!)
