I pulled up to the house, shifted into park, drew a deep breath and stepped from the car. The red colonial brick and white trimmed windows glared with more malice than I’d remembered. It was the kind of house I’d yearned for as a child, a place where white-picket-fence dreams transpired. Today, a sadness as cold as the
Jonas, my husband, had grown up in this house. I’d always ascribed warmth with his presence—a happier day when he’d slept under the eaves. Pneumonia, however, robbed us of his warmth nine years ago. His mother, Maureen, discovered the comfort of razorblades six months later. His father was the only inhabitant left standing until two years ago when a simple staph infection overran his life cup. I now owned the house.
I opened the front door and was greeted by silence. It was the sort of silence that promised to chew you up and spit you out on the edge of reality and I looked like lunch.
What had I expected—the haunting of ghosts, malevolent spirits, or eerie horror movie music?
The entry was as I remember, inviting and beautiful appinted. The whole of the downstairs—from parlor to dining room, from foyer to kitchen—was decorated in coordination shades of blue, green, and burgundy. Everything had been recently dusted, vacuumed, waxed, and fluffed by the maid service hired by the lawyer to keep the house presentable. But it felt almost lived in. I wanted dust bunnies and moldy, foul smells. I wanted it to feel dead. I wanted to feel dead.
It seemed the residents were on holiday and should be back any day; however, their vacation home was across town in the Boone County Cemetary.
I meandered through the rooms, stopping in the dining room. The deep mahogany of the massive table looked as though it’d been stained with gallons of blood.
I shed scarf, mittens, and peacoat, dropped them on the floor and sat at the table. Sat in the same chair she’d sat in ten years ago, Thanksgiving when Jonas told his parents he was sick.
Photo: Captain-Laserpants
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