The Haunted House
All houses are haunted.
The memories that live within them paint the walls the colors of their history. Bad houses feel gray and sad, happy houses feel warm and welcoming.
But most houses are a little of both.
So many memories that the structure becomes a conglomeration of colors. Nothing dark, nothing light, nothing happy or sad, just a mixture of it all.
The color of life.
This house was different.
It was all dark.
All sad.
It lived in the shadow of the Patee House Museum, a gathering place for the haunted items of Saint Joseph.
It lived in a neighborhood abandoned by prosperity.
It lived in a neighborhood where the residents had to chain-lock the hoods of their cars to ensure that the battery wouldn’t be stolen overnight.
It was a dark structure in a dark place.
I was six.
I remember following my mother into the home as the landlord showed us where we’d be living. Whoever had lived there before had either left in a hurry or was forced to leave. All of their items were strewn everywhere. Scattered on the floor, piled high against the walls.
We walked through as my eye caught the movement of something that flirted with the peripheral vision on my right side. I glanced over.
A ball rolled through the room. No one to push, no one to catch it. Just a little, lonely ball rolling through an empty dark room.
I clung to my mother’s dress as we continued.
She always had a dress to grasp too, she always had fabric to hide in. As a Pentecostal, any other garments were sinful for a woman. Pants were for men, shorts were for harlots. Dresses, skirts, and, on occasion, very modest culottes were what was expected of women. Men could not wear shorts either. That much leg is the landscape of the Devil.
Boys, though, could wear shorts as the temptation of Satan generally waited for the teen years.
So that dress was especially comforting and safe. It was predictable and known.
But even the dress couldn’t protect me from that place.
Doors would open.
Doors would slam.
Deadbolts would lock themselves.
Lightbulbs would explode.
And then there was the night that the house came for me.
I can’t recall if I had my own bedroom or bed, but I do remember I usually slept with my mother in her room.
On this night, I rolled over to find she was gone. I was alone in the darkness.
Or I thought I was.
That’s when I heard the creak.
It came from the corner, the darkest part of the room.
Something was there, something was filling in the darkness with a condensed shadow, a black mass of something refracting the blackness of the already dark room.
It moved.
It stood, something falling from its shoulders. It was if it was hiding under cloth and gravity caused it to slip away.
The floor creaked as it took a step.
I was frozen.
My hands squeezed the blanket tightly as the frantic breathing from my nose moved it back and forth.
Commands ran through my mind, “run!” “hide!” “scream!”
But nothing happened. My body could not escape the fear. The blanket could only move from my shallow breathing.
It approached the bed.
I managed to close my eyes. It was as close to running that my body could accomplish.
I felt the weight of the thing mount the bed, the springs sagging and moaning as it stood on it.
I felt a step.
Another step.
A closer step.
Then I felt breath.
Not my breath. Not my shallow breathing that tickled the blanket.
No, this was hot breath. It was foreign breath.
It was inches from me.
My six year-old body had had enough.
It bolted towards the door, leaving the blanket, bed, and breathing behind.
The hallway light was on and the brightness nearly blinded me. It was like moving from one world to another.
I slammed into the wall and fell.
My mother came running up the stairs, her eyes showing the frantic eyes of parenting.
She began cooing with the soothing tone of mothers, all while the register of fear tickled the back of her throat.
Picking me up, she entered the bedroom. My face pushing into her shoulder so hard it could have left a bruise.
We toured the room. There was nothing. Nothing on the bed, nothing in the corner.
Just a room. A haunted room, a room that felt bad.
I nuzzled into the side of her body for the rest of the night, trying to find safety in her warmth.
-
Looking back as an adult, I realize this house was dilapidated, falling apart from age and disinterest. The hauntings quite natural.
Doors would open. The foundation slanted.
Doors would slam. The house was drafty, the walls had given up on resistance.
Deadbolts would lock themselves. The locks were old, giving up on their purpose.
Lightbulbs would explode. The electrical system was frayed causing surges.
The monster. Sleep paralysis
But, regardless, this place haunts my memory.
It lives there, a permanent shade of gray.
But the only photo of me in that house is happy.
I am smiling on my Big Wheel, looking into the camera with a posed sense of excitement.
Memories are what haunt us.
Memories can shift, they can change, they can become untrue.
You can remember something clearly that may have never happened.
I remember trembling in this house, I remember dreading walking through its halls.
But the photo disputes this.
In the photo, I am a happy child. No darkness.
Empirically, from the evidence, this was a happy place. Left in the hands of historians this would be a happy home.
But I can’t help but remember the dread, the fear, the darkness.
Even now, I look at the photo and stare at the shadows beyond me, at the lone, dangling light bulb piercing the darkness. A bulb I can remember exploding.
Sometimes I’m sure those shadows stare back, waiting patiently for the bulb to explode.
Waiting for the darkness to return.
