It was shortly after we moved my father into assisted living that we put the house up for sale.
I had a fruit basket full of mixed emotions over the ordeal which you can read about here. The main problem was that the house would be sans people 24/7 and that meant someone had to keep a watchful eye on the place until it was sold.
It was always heartbreaking whenever I stopped out there.
The house was silent, listening, barely breathing; there were no voices (save for the ones screaming in my head), no sights, no lights, and no smells of Beef Stew simmering on the stove.
There was nothing that signified life of any kind until one misty summer night. Occasionally I find myself in situations so familiar that any aberration or slight change in the Matrix sets off a series of foghorns (which sounds kind of cool, actually).
I opened the backdoor that night and instinctively knew that something had changed regarding my internal homepage.
My hand reached out and found the light switch in the kitchen.
When I saw the condition of the room, the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.
The ceramic canisters (decorated with shiny fake fruit) on the counter were all knocked over and there was flour everywhere.
Upon closer inspection it looked as if someone had tried to write something in the thin dusting of flour that coated the counter.
There was something or someone in this house with me and it looked as though they were a bit pissed off.
I shook my head and immediately retreated to the addition off the kitchen where I’d left my old Adirondack baseball bat (34) sleeping in a corner.
I would search downstairs first, upstairs second and the cellar last because the door leading downstairs was mysteriously open but a crack.
I didn’t like that.
At the time, it never occurred to me to just leave and call the police.
This was still my house, goddamn it, and I intended to find out just what the hell was going on here.
With my trusty Adirondack I searched the downstairs, turning on lights and cautiously opening closet doors, fully prepared to bash to smithereens anything dense enough to pop its face into my field of vision.
I found nothing.
I would find the same thing upstairs as well as in the attic, the quintessential hiding place of all things evil.
This left me feeling a bit queasy about the cellar, the netherworld of any house.
There were rusty saws and screwdrivers and a host of other nasty tools that I envisioned some maniac burying deep into my chest cavity.
‘Oh, Michael, you’re dreaming for God’s sake. This isn’t Hollywood.
Freddy Krueger isn’t hiding around the corner.
Just go down cellar you silly panty-waist baby. Go on.’
I clicked on the cellar light and began going down the creaky cellar stairs.
How come cellar stairs are always creaky?
God, I hate that.
It was halfway down the stairs when I heard something…or someone move.
to be continued. . .