Dread
The tension is mounting — everyone pretends to be concentrating on the task at hand but there’s no denying the usual signs. Quietly, our higher functioning brains are working feverishly to deny what our primitive brains have already registered — fear. The kind that has the hair on the back of your neck standing up, your palms sweating, your breath coming faster, shallow and moist, and most of all, your heart racing.
Noises.
Noises coming from upstairs…Yet a quick check of our surroundings confirms what we already know: we’re all together in the family room. I could head upstairs to check out the noises, as I have done many times before, but the recon always yields the same results: doors ajar, lights once off now on, and the occasional whisper, the kind of whisper where you can’t quite make out the words but there’s no mistaking the sound almost like a hiss.
Always at dusk and always ending with the office…
I wake to a steady fall rain. I love the rain and this rain came down in a quiet cool rhythm that was calming and peaceful. I thought about the day ahead as I stretch and remember that it was packed with meetings. I am grateful. Occupying my thoughts with work, outside this house, this prison gives me some relief. I can only imagine the kids feel the same way too.
I hop out of bed, ready to embrace the day and the day flies by me so fast that when I look up at the clock, it’s 5:30 pm. I lock up and head for home. Along the way, I can feel my anxiety mount.
Tonight I have an evening all to myself, alone in the house. Most women would revel in this good fortune. But this house was different. And it hasn’t gone unnoticed that I find myself alone more frequently as the kids seem to have more commitments after school and sleepover invitations. I sigh. I can’t blame them.
For those that believe me, the same suggestion presents itself, “why don’t you sell the house?” And my response is, “in this economy? and with my little problem?”
I’m trapped. And I think the house knows it.
I arrive home in time to make a little pasta and pour myself a glass of wine. I sit at the counter to read the paper. The usual small town discussions about zoning, the high school football team, and announcements from the merchants association. The phone rings.
“Hello?” I answer.
Nothing on the other end.
“Hello?” I raise my voice (why do people do this?)
I could hear breathing.
“Who is this?” I ask, sharply. The caller hangs up.
At that moment I can hear him shutting off his light in the office at the top of the stairs, the shifting in his chair making the floors creak. He’s pondering his next move, I imagine. He’s heard me hang up the phone…batten down the hatches, it’s on. And yet…
Footsteps.
Footsteps on the stairs? I drop my wine glass. This is new and while I struggle with myself, between the phone call and creaky stairs, I’m terrified. In spite of my fear, or because of it, I don’t know which, I slowly step to the bottom of the staircase. Nothing.
The wind is blowing outside. The rain has not let up all day. I left my window open upstairs and thought I should go shut it and yet I can not bring myself to climb those stairs. I sit and ponder my immediate circumstances.
Footsteps on the staircase is a new addition to the usual repertoire of unexplainable events and indicates that more new unexplainable events might follow. Was the first floor immune to the phenomenon or would strange things begin to happen downstairs as well as up? Fear is taking over my reason. How would we be able to sleep? Where would we sleep?
I decide to get in my car and begin calling the kids to check in and confirm they are both staying somewhere else for the entire night. I then call my mom and ask if I could spend the night with her. “Of course,” is her response.
In the morning, I call into the office and let them know I will be late. Lingering over coffee with Mom, we try to take a different approach to the situation.
“Assuming that something is going on and it’s something we can’t explain perhaps it’s time to at least see if the previous homeowners could shed some light on the situation?”
My mom is right. It’s a place to start and so I decide to call my realtor. Of course, I’m not going to tell her the truth. I simply say I want to chat with them about a particular renovation they had done to the house. I want to contact the contractor. No problem, the realtor says. And she puts me in touch with them.
When I call Jim and Susie Morris, a child answers the phone.
“Could I speak to your Dad,” I ask.
“Daddy’s in the hospital,” she answers, but another voice in the distance says, “Who is it Genevieve?” “I don’t know,” is her response.
“Can I help you?” comes an adult voice on the line.
“Is this Susie Morris?” I ask. “Yes” is the reply.
“My name is Rebecca Willis and I believe I purchased your house in Willow Grove last year.”
There is a long pause on her end. “Yes?” Susie responds, almost a whisper.
Now what? How do I ask her about unusual, what? Phenomenon?
“Susie, I was wondering if you might have experienced anything unusual about the house, particularly in the evenings? Creaking? Maybe settling?”
Another long pause and I hear her say, “Genevieve, go play with your dolls, I’ll be up in a minute”
Susie returns to the phone, “What do you want?”
“I’m just hoping you might be able to share some information. Maybe confirm the noises we are all hearing?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. We had to sell that house because Jim was transferred. We’re not responsible…”
“Susie,” I interrupt, “all I’m asking is for some information. Nothing more.” I decide to change the subject. “Your daughter said your husband is in the hospital. I hope he’s alright?”
“It’s just the stress…”
Something tells me it isn’t the job.
“Did something happen to you or Jim or Genevieve while you lived in the house? Something bad?”
“I don’t know what you mean…”
“Susie, I have two children of my own that I need to protect. I am asking you if anything happened while you lived in the house in Willow Grove.”
“I have to go.” And with that, she hangs up the phone.
Great. She’s certainly hiding something. Now what?
