The Old House

Graphic © IGK (DW) 2003

I never knew her. She died when I was two. I don't know why I was drawn to the place, but then I never do.
I do not consider myself psychic, I cannot tell you what's going to happen, with one exception when my neice was young.
I am at a loss to explain them, these feelings. I also do not believe in re-incarnation, but that would seem to be the only explanation for the only other house that I was drawn to in such a manner.
That one, an old Victorian Mansion, downtown, I was in the eigth grade, on a field trip then, to a restored Victorian Home.
From the moment I got off the bus and looked at the house, it was as if I had been there before, yet, I knew I never had...in this life. I knew things about the place, where the hidden rooms were, two of them, used in the Underground Railroad to help slaves escape to freedom. I knew where every light switch in the house was, even the ones in odd places. It was erie. I thought perhaps even evil at the time, though I felt no evil in the house. Death certainly, of wounded slaves who never made it beyond that point. Their freedom so short lived, but peaceful. Three women, two old, one young who died of scarlet fever there. And two men, both of whom died naturally.
And then there's the phone calls that I answer (they tell me) before it even rings. The knowing when a family member has been hurt or will be if they follow the itinerary they set.

They do not believe either, but they always change their plans.

I do not know how to explain it all. I know now though that there is nothing evil about it, not on my part anyway. I have run across it though.

And I wondered if it was my relative, or evil that drew me to this new house. Not knowing, I came in the morning. I admit I am sometimes a little weird, I like to take walks in the fog at dusk or dawn, in my neighborhood where I know the way. I enjoy sometimes standing before a house that draws or repells me, letting the feelings in, trying to discern what tragedy occured there. And I can see beauty in neglect as here. This house had sat empty since my Grandmother died. No one would go near it, not to pick the wildflowers or the roses from the once beautiful garden, now overgrown, wild and with thistles.

The wild vines, the unkempt lawn. The old bench where nobody sits to admire the place, but once much used by Linda, my grandma and her friends as they took tea and broke bread together. The house, with the siding bare and so weathered and rotted that in many places, the sunlight or moonlight filtered through. It was all peaceful and beautiful to me and I sat and watched for hours, waiting for whatever message might come. Admiring the wild, neglected beauty of the place, basking in it's peace.

Only the well, almost completely hidden by undergrowth, I did not want to go near. Why, I cannot say for certain. I guess felt the presence there, more than elsewhere. What presence I could not say, who's I did not know anymore than I knew why the day after my father's funeral I felt compelled to travel to a state he had never lived, to my knowledge, a place, he never walked, never knew.

I have learned not to argue with such strong feelings. They will not leave you alone. There is nothing but to comply!

And so I found myself waiting for the message that I knew would come. I had planned to leave in the early afternoon as it was quite a walk into the town and then the train station would carry back home, to the duties I must perform there.

I cannot say why I did not leave as planned. Whether I was waiting still for a message, luled by the loveliness of the place, or putting off returning to those painful duties, but i simply did not get up. I thought about it many times, but I simply did not rise, but once to walk around to the gate.

It was almost dusk and I did not want to be there then, but found that I was completely unafraid, even of the long walk ahead of me in the dark.

It was then, as the sun was setting behind the well that I began to see a light, a faint glow, a muted mist if you will, coming from the well itself.

And then a figure, a woman in a long country frock. She had short dark hair, and was only about 4'8" tall. I recognized her from family photos. It was Linda.

I tried to remember what I knew of her, my father, an only child, abandoned by his father when still an infant, had loved his mother and spent time staring at her picture every day from the time I could remember until 4 days prior. It was one of the last things he did in fact.

My mother, did not like her. She had lived with them, with us for a time, before moving here. My mother told me that dad adored his mother. And that his mother adored him. But she wanted to keep him all to herself. She had for a time made their marriage a living hell. Then the children started coming. Eight in all and mom said Grandma knew with each new grandchild, her hate of them and mom, grew worse. For she knew my father would never desert his children. My grandmother, Linda was also my Godmother. And I wondered for what purpose she beckoned me. Retribution, forgiveness, what?

I did not know, but I was helpless to flee. Nor did I want to. I was not afraid of her, even as I remembered these things and wondered about her purpose.

The closer I came to her the more I wondered for all the clarity of the figure before me, it was likewise, blurry, unclear of feature. I could not see or sense a smile or malice. I was at her mercy entirely. I approached the well and I was overpowered by the knowledge that I would have surely jumped in had she bade me to.

Instead, she turned and glided toward the house. Now dark, save for the moonlight filtering in through the broken panes and boards. She entered and I followed.

The once beautiful, valuable antiques had not been pilfered. They were however weathered and ruined beyond repair. The chinz curtain flapped in rags on the floor below the windows they onced covered. Dust and Cobwebs abounded. Bats hung from the light fixtures and spiders of incredible size caught my attention scurrying across the floor.

Linda was standing by the old stove pipe stove and beckoned me forward again. We were almost face to face and I could not see her, yet saw her plainly. She moved aside and pointed toward the floor.

I bent down to see between the worn boards a tin box, dark green on the sides. I looked at her again but she pointed only. I could not find my voice. And now sure her intent was not to harm, I wanted so much to speak to her, for the first time. To tell her that I was glad she was my Godmother. That I loved her simply because my father had. But no words would come. She impatiently shook her head, slowly and pointed again.

I found an old wooden spoon and pried up the board, removed the wooden box and placed it on the kitchen table.

Inside was a cameo. Not a modern one. This was a thing of beauty. Very old and very valuable I was sure. Also an old envelope and letter, yellowed and brittle with age.

I looked at Linda and she pointed to the candle on the table. I lit it and she motioned me to read the letter. I began to read aloud as I was not sure if I was reading it for me or for her. It was to her from my father.

It said:

"My dearest mother,

I wish that you had not left us. I miss you dearly and worry about this depression you say you suffer from. You know that I cannot come as I have to support my family and jobs are scarce as is money when you have a baseball team as Betty and I do.

Betty is willing for you to come back. And I want you too mom. We can take care of you and you would be welcome.

Karen, your Goddaughter is only two but keeps asking us Where her godma is. She misses you too, though if you don't come back will be too young to remember you.

I know that you and Betty don't get along. I do not understand why and it is a source of great pain to me that the two most beautiful woman in the world and the two that I love best above all do not, but I know that you both have an immense amount of love in your hearts and the ability to compromise could fix thing up.

Mom, I know you think I married young, because I was going off to a war I might not return from, but I assure you that I have loved Betty since we were in the eigth grade together. I love her still. As I do you. She is a wonderful wife and mother.

You know that you were a wonderful wife and mother as well. It is no fault of yours that dad, did marry you to get out of going to war. That is on his head, and his failure to fulfill his obligations after the war to us both are too.

No one can find fault with you or with Betty. I need to understand that my reasons for marrying her were not the same as his. Indeed I joined up, you should have known then. Betty used to be welcome in our home.

I do wish you would come home and live with us and we'll try to work it all out. I know with the love I have found in both of you that it is possible.

In the meantime, I am sending this little trinket as a token of my love for you mom, and I hope it will cheer you up. (Don't tell Betty. Times being what they are, we are having a tough go of it right now, just keeping the kids in shoes. I took out a loan on the house, which I can handle, but I do not want her worrying on it, is all.)

I love you dearly with every beat of my heart!

Do come home.

Your Don.

When I looked up, Linda was gone. I took my treasure and crying, began my long dark trek to the station.