ghosties and things that go bump in the night: nablopomo 11.16.12

Five Islands at Low Tide (Photo credit: Property#1)

Would I buy my dream house (on the sea shore and surrounded by woods) within my price range BUT it was inhabited by ghosts? Absolutely NOT. Ghosts and wandering spirits scare the h**l (excuse the pun, please) out of me.

We rented a house, situated in my dream spot, nestled in the woods above a spectacular seascape of rocks, pebble and sandy beaches and breaking waves and low tide treasures. Drinking morning coffee while looking out over the seascape was transforming; the view transfixing at suppertime.

There were drawbacks to be sure. Often water had to get hauled from the old well and heated on the wood stove. The 1920s electrical system faded in and out and crackled. There was the long lane to trudge – scaring grouse that flew up from their hiding places startling me — to get the mail. Our car, a trusted 1965er, regularly got mired in the mud of the lane or the lawn.

But, the biggest drawback was the fact that the previous owner’s son killed the family next door. Our situation at the time was dire enough for us to try it anyway. I was home alone all day in the tiny house – I spent as much time as I could on the shore. I could sense the anger and evil, even if I didn’t see ghosts, only felt their restlessness. Even the glow of the fireflies travelling through the woods frightened me.

We escaped because I found another dream house to rent. I’ve written of it often – our house with the big garden, the winter gathering of eagles and hawks on the tall trees by our door; the sadness and adventure when we left; and the new farmscape of winery vines where once our house and the old fashioned apple tree once were.

I’ll see it when I believe it or something like that is the old adage. For me it was a sense of the presence of unhappy souls and the sadness and madness that permeated the dream house by the shore.

As to the restless spirits of our rented house by the sea — I hope they have all found peace, calm, and foregiveness.

carry on Tuesday #160: is there anybody [out] there?, a melodrama in one act*

As she wandered through the rooms, the only sound was the ghostly echo of her footsteps. She stood at the far edge of the portrait gallery; each picture’s age betrayed as much by the style of dress as by the fine cracks that lined their faces like wrinkles in time.

A thin patina of dust had settled on the furniture. Some of the larger pieces disguised by drop clothes; once white, now grey with age. These loomed like ghosts against the twilight windows.

As she traced the shape of lovingly hand carved moldings, the outline of the time-darkened wainscoting, a small cloud arose – a puff, a wisp of smoky dust. She wondered how long these rooms had sat, their silence undisturbed, the portraits’ owners sleep deep and unending.

With the darkening sky, she could barely make out shadows, the play of light through high stain-glass transoms. Light now muted, like the 1,000 shades of brown that filled the air, rising from the oak, the cherry, the cedar, the maple that defined and delineated each room, each era.

She moved towards a sideboard where she had glimpsed an ancient candelabra, its sliver branches still holding stubs of candles. Fumbling with matches, she realized how unsteady her hands were. She needed to sit down in one of the heavy dining room chairs she had passed. To rest her head against its firm back and relax her tight and tired muscles.

With the candles now providing a reassuring circle of light, a glow, she guessed which way lead back to the formal dining room. Away from the picture gallery that now seemed eerily empty despite the generations that graced the walls; their posed and composed faces seemed to have turned ever so slightly as if to watch her leave and the glow of light fade into the distance.

She thought there should be floating, wafting sheer curtains, open French doors, fluttering doves – like a scene from the Hunger; an artsy framing of day into night. Instead, there were the long shadows cast by the candle’s flickering light; no breath of wind and the air filled with silence, not a premonition of danger, and fear.

Her reflection in the mirror startled her; she couldn’t remember passing it in her trek through the rooms. She jumped, taking two steps backward, pirouetting from foot to foot to retain her balance; hot wax from the candle dripping down on to her shoe, and thickly splashing on to the floor. Her hands automatically went up to her hair, checking to see how many strands had escaped from her hair clip. Without thinking or really looking, she readjusted the knapsack on her back, and felt to see if her shirt had come untucked from her jeans.

It was then she looked up and realized she didn’t recognize the woman who was staring back at her. It was as if the mirror was a pane of glass with someone else behind mimicking her movements. Each minute within the house had aged her a year. “Is there anybody there?” she timidly whispered, not sure if she expected or wanted an answer for she was, herself, a ghost held captive between time and space; these walls with darkened wood and wallpaper of faded roses and vines, the tall, narrow windows that sparkled like prisms in the day and stood blank against the night were her prison. “I am here now,” she said with more confidence, drawing strength from the history of the place; echoes of her words, like her footsteps, amplified by the dusty, dark silence.

* reference to Pink Floyd‘s mostly instrumental track on the Wall.