Dread 2
As I ponder the implications of that phone call, Mom taps me on the shoulder and I jump a foot!
“Sorry,” Mom said quietly, patting me on the back.
I put off going in to work long enough. As I head out the door, I stopped to look myself in the mirror. In spite of my inner turmoil, the woman who stared back at me appeared calm and collected, professional. “Fear and anxiety can cloud your judgement,” I remind myself, “I must remain calm, if only for the kids.”
As the rest of the day at work flew by, I had to decide what to do about the evening. Should we stay and take our chances that the house would be quiet this evening? Upon arriving home, I got my answer. The kids were sitting on the front porch.
“What’s going on? Why are you out here?”
“I’m not going back in there. The house is screaming now. Screaming,” Carrie said with emphasis and not just a little sarcasm.
“And footsteps down the staircase. Mom what’s going on? We can’t live here. It’s too scary. And I can’t tell anyone; they’ll think I’m a freak.” Emily was in middle school. Her lower lip was quivering and she was verging on tears.
I decided to go inside and have a look around.
“If I don’t come out in 10 minutes call the police.”
“And tell them what exactly?” Carrie again with the sarcasm.
“Tell them I went into the house because I heard someone screaming and that I haven’t come back out.”
“But that’s a lie,” Emily pointed out between hiccups. She always got a case of the hiccups when she was experiencing high anxiety. It was an endearing trait, almost serving as the family’s barometer.
Suddenly, screaming came from inside the house — and it was a male voice, in great physical pain.
“Now it’s not a lie,” I responded with equal sarcasm.
I walk through the front door and into the foyer and pause to listen. Nothing. I take a few more steps knowing the house senses my presence. There — there it was — some creaking, as if someone was scurrying across the upstairs landing. And then the door to the office shut.
That’s it — I take the stairs two at a time and barge into the “office” and flip the lights on. It was called the office because, I assumed, the former owners had left the room in tact with a desk and chairs and bookcases. It was certainly dated, from another time, but now I’m starting to wonder if the Morris’ had used this as an office or if perhaps, they had found it this way themselves.
I had never really looked all that closely at the room. Initially, when I toured the home, I kinda thought I’d use it as an office. But I was surprised to find everything still there when we moved in. Why on earth had the Morris’ left this furniture behind?
And then the house began to speak to us from that office and so we avoided that room like the plague. Now, upon closer inspection I’m looking at the bookcases, really looking at the books in the cases for the first time and I can feel a rising dread in addition to fear and anxiety slowly steal across my chest and up through my throat. With each book title I read, my heart sinks further.
“Totem and Taboo: Resemblances Between the Psychic Lives of Savages and Neurotics”
“Sermons on Evil Speaking”
“Al-Jilwah: Black Book of Satan”
The titles went on and on and on about evil: evil people, evil deeds, summoning evil, you name it, the kind of books you know exist but no one ever talks about.
Surely these weren’t the Morris’s? They’re clearly a collection, but are some of the titles modern? Did they belong to the Morris’ after all? An old glass on the desk tips over right there and then interrupting my thoughts and giving me a fright. I jump and whip around the room searching for an explanation. I can’t “see” anything, but I feel something. There was something in this room with me and there is no denying it.
I take a deep breath to try and steady my nerves I suppose and in the calmest voice I can muster, say, “I don’t know who you are or what you want or why you seem to be unhappy. I really like this town and this house and would like to remain here with my children. That is what I intend to do.”
I glanced around looking for anything that would indicate recognition or understanding. On the desk was an old newspaper. Was that there before? Then I hear the girls outside calling to me.
I totally forgot about that 10 minute rule and call out to the girls to come inside and pack a few things. We were all going to spend the night at Mom’s. But I’m going to drop the girls off and run an errand, to the public library. This home had a past and if the Morris’ weren’t going to be forthcoming with information, perhaps I can do some research of my own.
