The Horrible House

 

I have to laugh. I do listen to what people say as far as my blogging goes. Sometimes I politely smile and say, "Now that is an interesting idea," while other times I try to actually implement what is suggested. Recently I have been implementing, only to get told last week that my blog was a little darker than expected. Really? 

They were referring to the part about my actual life. I was rather shocked, as my life was like a day at Disneyland compared to many other people's lives. What were you all expecting? Did you think my life was special and I sprouted from daffodils and breathed sunshine and light breezes during my young life? Well, you would be wrong. So if last week felt a little too grey for you, then this week might really throw you off and make you look at me through different eyes. Sorry. Not sorry. It just simply is what it is. 

The first house my mom, dad (step-dad), and I lived in, was an "L" shaped ranch style house that sat less than a block from my grade school. It had three bedrooms, one and a half baths, a living room, a den, a galley kitchen, and a small dinette area. The half bath attached to the master bedroom which by today's standards was just an average bedroom and the half bath which had no tub or shower, held the washer/dryer hookups and doubled as our laundry room. The house also had a rather large front patio enclosed by a bricked fence and a huge backyard, surrounded by large cedar trees. The large living room was supposed to be a formal living room complete with a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the backyard. My parents didn't have nearly enough furniture to fill such a spacious room, but as both of my parents were antique collectors, we did have a turn-of-the-century sofa, a Lincoln rocker, and a small, 1920s sewing rocker in the room. The rest became my brother's play area and toy room after he was born. 

To say I HATED this house, even as a young child, was an understatement. Looking back, I think the reason I had such strong feelings about it was because of the emotional trauma I felt living there, but in all fairness, the house itself did not help. 

Now some might say, that because of all the turmoil in my house, Dad leaving, Mom pregnant and sick, and me feeling like an afterthought, this might have contributed to my negative feelings in that house, and they would likely be right. It might also be believed that I fed off the feelings of my mom, however, I never particularly was conscious of my mom's feelings on the house until we had long moved away and then she let me know that she hated it as much as I did. So now I wonder, were some of my emotional situations coming from feeding off her feelings? Quite possibly, but some were uniquely my own too. 

I am sure that some of my harsh feelings towards the house were because of my dad's constant comings and goings. Now in my recollection, I never once ever remember my parents fighting in that house. Obviously, they did, but they never made me aware of it. Because of this, it made it just that much easier for me to believe that his leaving had to do with me and me alone. The coat closet by the front door was the bain of my young existence. My dad wore suits to work, and this is where he kept his suit jackets. When my dad was staying with us, the closet was full, but when he was gone, it was empty. I learned early on to check that closet daily, in order to know what his home status was. 

I was also too young at the time to know about his girlfriend, so I always thought he was staying with my grandparents. That illusion though was shattered when I was about eight, and Mom, myself, and my brother were driving to the store and we pulled up right next to my dad and his girlfriend at a stop light. My poor mom had a lot of explaining to do that day, as my dad refused to acknowledge that he even saw us, although he looked right at us, and of course, I never asked him about the situation, only Mom. 

One of the traumas I suffered not in the house but directly related to the house, happened when I was about six. It was a cold, grey winter day and I had been held after school for some reason. When I finally headed out for home, the street was basically empty. I always walked the block to and from school, as my mom had a newborn, and most kids in the area also walked. As I was walking towards my home, on the opposite side of the street, I saw a car parked with the engine running but facing the wrong way for that side of the street. He was facing the direction that I was walking. As I had gotten down a ways from the school's front doors, the car slowly pulled away from the other side of the street and started coming directly toward me. I noticed that his passenger window was down and I wondered why on such a cold day. The strange thing is though, I no longer know what the man looked like. I remember at the time thinking he was older, but to a six-year-old, older could be twenty or fifty. 

In the minutes that followed, the man tried to get me to come to his car, speaking to me through his rolled down window and trying to coax me with the warmth of his car. I began to run and darted in front of his car (not a great move) screaming to the top of my lungs for my mom. Luckily my lungs were strong and my screams were piercing on this cold afternoon as it carried straight to my mom who was waiting at the front door to get a glimpse of me. The man in the car pulled to the other side of the street trying to follow me and obviously having no idea how close to home I was. His driver's side window was also rolled down as he kept saying, "Little girl. I just want to give you a ride. Little girl, I'll take you to your mommy." 

It was just about then that my mom came out and stood in the front yard. The sight of her was such a relief as I ran directly into her arms and the man gunned his motor and sped down the street and past my waiting mom. 

Long story short, I was not this guy's only attempt at child abduction that day. After leaving us, he went to a grocery store parking lot a few blocks away and tried to grab a child walking with his mom to the car. The mom turned just in time to see him. Whether he was caught or not, I am not sure, but he left a lasting impression of stranger danger instilled in me, as well as more reason to hate my current surroundings. 

Another situation that caused me lasting trauma, happened in my own backyard. It was here that I was molested by an older neighborhood boy. Because my backyard was so large, and my mom was always there to keep an eye out, a lot of kids of different ages came over and played there. This particular neighborhood boy played there because he lived directly behind us and my mom knew his mom. He was a mean kid though, who often hit me when my mom wasn't looking, knowing that I was too timid to tell on him. 

On the side of our house, we had cedar trees growing huge and thick, blocking the view of any neighbors. Between the house and the trees was about an eight-foot space out of view of windows or my mom's vigilant eyes. The boy who was about four years older than me, convinced me to go beside the house with him, immediately yanking down my pants and his. As he began to touch me, I began crying, scared, and having no idea what to do. Luckily my mom had looked out and not seen me, so she stepped out and heard me crying. She came around the house and caught him. I remember she was so angry and she sent me into the house and told him to pull his pants up and get home. It was a different time and I am sure that my mom was immediately on the phone with his mom, but aside from what, if anything his parents might have done to him, nothing else happened. He was forbidden from ever coming into our yard again and I was told never to go near him. That was the end of it, but the incident never left me, nor did the emotional scarring it caused inside me. 

After that, I hated those cedar trees. In fact, to this day, I hate ALL cedar trees. It made me realize how dark and closed off they made the yard feel. They turned a place that I used to like to play, into a place I dreaded going. There was however, a large covered patio that set just out the backdoor that had a picnic table, and from then on, I would play on the patio, but I refused to go anywhere else in the yard unless my parents were out there with me. 

My bedroom also scared me from day one. I was okay in it during the day, but at night, it was a source of complete terror for me. My dad was a stickler for no nightlights and doors closed. The dark always felt so thick and I always had the sensation that someone or something was watching me. I refused to allow myself to see anything that might be there, so I would immediately shut my eyes tightly and cover my head, regardless of how warm the house was. I would lie there sweating and barely able to breathe, motionless, until I would fall asleep. I was literally terrified every night I slept in that room. 

The thing that solidified my dread of that house happened when I was six or seven. I was taking a bath at night with the bathroom door open. While playing in the tub, I saw something go past the door. Thinking it was my mom, I said her name but there was no answer. Then I heard her down the hall in the kitchen. 

I went back to playing when I saw something dart past the door again. I could still hear Mom down the hall and there was no one else but her and I and my baby brother who was in his playpen, in the house. Once again I went back to playing until out of the corner of my eye, I saw something dark. The bathtub sat on the opposing wall of the door, so as I just sat there, frozen, I could see directly out the door. There in the doorway stood a tall, dark, shadowy figure of a man wearing a hat. His face was shadowed by the hat and he was more floating than walking. In fact, I don't remember much of what he looked like from about mid-chest down, except for shadowy black. As I watched, he began to move towards me. The bathroom was about ten feet long and he was slowly closing the distance between the door and me. I remained frozen until he was about two feet from me and then I let out another one of my signature ear-piercing screams. I heard my mom's feet running towards me and just as the figure got close enough to touch me, she was coming around the corner of the bathroom. The figure exploded into nothingness. 

I was hysterical and told my mom what I had experienced. She told me that I was being silly and that it was just my imagination. I knew it wasn't and because of that knowledge, I refused to take a bath there again without my mom sitting outside the door.

 It wasn't until I was much older that my mom told me that she did actually believe me that day. She said I was too scared to not have seen something and over the years, I had never changed my story. At the time though, she didn't want to make me more afraid by letting me know that there might actually be something there. Ohhhhh that house. 

There was also the time that I was sound asleep and my mom came and yanked me out of bed and put my brother and I both in her bed (dad of course was not there). She locked her bedroom door, went to the closet, and pulled out a gun. I had no idea we had a gun or that my mom knew how to use one, but we did and she did. She sat on the bed with the gun pointed at the door as she called the police. She stayed in this position until she saw the reflection of the police lights in the window and heard the knock on the front door. 

Apparently, Mom had been rocking my brother in the Lincoln rocker in the living room. The room was dark so she could get him to sleep, when all of a sudden, she saw the light from a flashlight coming through the big window. Someone was in our backyard. Mom froze and then within minutes, she heard someone pounding on the front door. She went to the door but would not open it. She peered out through the window and saw a guy she had never seen before, dressed mainly in black holding the flashlight. She said he yelled through the door using her name and saying he was a cop just checking everything out and that if she would let him in, he would check out the inside too. Needless to say, she made no sound and that is when she ran and got me, putting us in her room. 

The police assured her, that it was not a cop and that they would never be in our backyard without first being called and then getting her permission. They never caught the guy, but it was obvious that he had been watching our house, knew who my mom was, and knew my dad was not there. 

It wasn't long after that Dad moved back home for a bit. One night I was in bed and I kept hearing something outside my window. I started crying and Mom heard me. She looked out and saw nothing so she told me to go back to sleep. Under the covers I went, this time with my fingers in my ears, so I couldn't hear anything. The next morning, my dad looked outside and saw a bunch of stuff scattered over the backyard. When he went out to check it out, there were rings, necklaces, a small camera, along with some other items. 

My parents called the police, recognizing the jewelry held some value. Come to find out that there had been several break-ins in our neighborhood the night before and these were some of the items that had been stolen. The police figured that the thieves had cut through our backyard as the cedar trees would keep them out of view and they likely had dropped the items in the process. So I HAD heard something. 

My last night in that house came when I was about eight. I was in the third grade and school was not out for summer yet. Dad of course was not residing with us, and I was asleep when again, my mom came and pulled me out of bed. This time she handed me some shoes and told me to put them on and then she put my brother and me in the car, which was packed to the brim with our stuff. She locked the house door, got in the car and we took off. Once a ways down the road, she told me that we were going to stay with my Aunt Margaret. My Aunt Margaret lived in New Mexico. It was not even sunup as it was still dark, but by day's end, we would be in another state, another home and this would be the beginning of the end of a long drawn out dissolution of my family. At least I never had to step foot in that horrible house again. 

Little fun fact. The horrible house was on the market a few years ago and there were many realty pictures of it. Gone are the ominous cedar trees, the enclosed brick front patio, and the interior has been done to look light and airy. I couldn't help but wonder if the house held such darkness for me because my family was in such a dark period ourselves or was the house just that horrible? Did any other children residing there fear the night or meet up with what I later learned was a shadow man? I certainly hope not. 

That was not our last experience with the scary and traumatic in places we lived, but I never once have missed that horrible house and the emotional distress it caused me. Funny thing though, up until my dad's death last year, he proclaimed that house to be his favorite of all the houses he had lived in. Perhaps if he had actually lived there, either we would all have had a more positive experience, or at the very least, he might have seen it through different eyes.