Why I Stay in My Obviously Haunted House
Couldn’t they see how much this house was helping my novel?
Everyone loves to point out how the house just seemed haunted. Sure, there was a cathedral attic with a broken window and a creepy dead tree out front. And yes, there were several clown dolls left by the previous owner who died horrifically in the basement. But anyone can accidentally bash their head multiple times into a wall.
We were living in Boston where I was writing my novel (an in-depth look at a white man going through a midlife crisis). I couldn’t think inside our cramped apartment with its lack of in-unit laundry and loud kitchen backsplash. So I woke up one morning and told my wife, Danielle, and my three children (whose names are irrelevant) that we were moving to the woods.
When we pulled up to the old mansion I had found on Zillow, the kids seemed excited, but I didn’t care. All I could see was an oasis to foster my creative genius.
THE FIRST NIGHT
was fine. Did my middle child say she saw a woman in a weird nightgown wandering the third floor? Maybe, but she’s five or six and that’s too little to know anything for sure. I jotted the incident down however, for my book.
THE SECOND NIGHT
around three in the morning my eldest insisted she was being suffocated by invisible hands, but I’ve heard that looking at your iPad for too long can leave bruises on your throat so I dismissed it. Luckily the idea sparked some great ideas for my secondary plot line.
THE THIRD NIGHT
I was called to meet with my editor. She was distressed that I had only completed one chapter in 28 months and wanted to make sure I was “serious”. So I packed up our only vehicle and told Danielle I’d be back in a couple of days.
THE FOURTH NIGHT
I received several upsetting voicemails. If Danielle had been meeting her editor (hypothetical as she can barely write a greeting card), I would never leave messages about being “violently dragged by the force of a thousand dead souls”. But it did give me the brilliant idea to add a psychotic wife to my novel.
THE FIFTH NIGHT
It wasn’t until I pulled up late and saw an unnatural light filtering through the cathedral that I thought perhaps something was wrong.
I found Danielle staring intently at the microwave. I could see that her eyes were missing and just as her mouth was opening to reveal a gigantic black hole, I heard a thumping coming from the basement. Out the front window I could see one of my children climbing backwards up the dead tree.
The thumping was getting louder. We’re not a gun family, but I always have one on me and I pulled it out just as the basement door flung open. There stood five children dressed in rags, bleeding out of their eyes. I fled, only to run directly into my actual children hovering mid-air, projectile vomiting everywhere. The second I touched their skin the flesh on my hands started melting. I gave out a very masculine and heartfelt scream, and tried to take down some observations for my book.
Eventually sunlight started to creep in and suddenly it was as if nothing had happened. The microwave turned off, the orphans went back downstairs and Danielle got her eyes and mouth back. When everyone finally came to, they were hysterical. “We have to get out of here!” Danielle screamed.
I was mortified. Couldn’t they see how much this house was helping my novel? Sure, blood was pouring from the walls every evening at 8pm, but it was an excellent metaphor for my character’s inability to connect with his father. Plus we were saving on paint!
Cursing, Danielle pushed the kids out the door. I couldn’t help but imagine this as the climactic scene of my novel. They’d be sorry when my book hit the NY Times Best Seller list. I slammed the door and turned to find a woman in a nightgown standing right next to me. As she reached for my throat, I thought how genius it would be to add a spicy affair in the next chapter…
