The House, by Stannley

As I stand here looking into your expectant faces, it occurs to me that at last you’re elder is actually getting 
the respect he deserves.  How long that’ll last after I have told you all I know about the house remains to be 
seen, but whether the respect lingers, or as I expect, melts away like winter's first snowfall, the story is true.  
Everything I say here tonight, every morsel I feed to your eager, upturned faces actually happened.  

How do I know?  I was there, that’s how…

It was in the fall of 1942.  The trees along the walk to the gate were shedding their leaves and it was proving 
to be a devil of a job to keep it clear.  

I was the gardener here in those days you see, so it was my job to keep the place clean and tidy; to keep the 
lawns cut short, the trees pruned and the weeds pulled.  

Yeah, you can snigger now as you look at branches of those cursed trees that stretch across the path and 
seem to seek every nook and cranny to hook into and impede your progress.  

You can laugh as you look at the grass, nearly three feet tall in places and ugly with it, and sure you can 
giggle at the flower beds that are all weeds now, but back in my day, back in 1942, these were the best-kept 
gardens around.  

A weed only had to show half an inch of itself out of the ground and it would be plucked out, root an’all so 
that the blessed thing would never grow in my gardens again.  

Those straggly trees whose branches seem to want to poke your eyes out were always neatly pruned back so 
that as you walked up the path it was as if you walked down a long, living, green corridor.  

And the lawns?  Hell you could’ve played champion lawn bowls on my lawns.  You could’ve used them as 
putting greens if I had allowed you to punch little, circular holes in the ground which, of course, I wouldn’t.  

And in the background, to me anyway, since the gardens were always my foreground, was the house.

Back then the house was a sight to behold.  It stood shimmering, a brilliant white even on those days of 
autumn when the sun seems to find it's journey into the sky almost as painful as my journeys up the stairs 
nowadays.  

When the reds and golds of the fallen leaves (much to my irritation) turned the ground from a lush green to 
the colour of mahogany.

You wouldn't think it to look at those poor drab walls now but in those days they whitewashed the building 
every summer.

Usually young Rob would do it with the help of his younger brother, Pete.  Not for money, not like 
nowadays where a youth might mug you for a nickel, kill you for a dime.  

Nope, back then Rob and Pete did it because they enjoyed it and because of the wonderful apple pie their 
mom made them every time they did it.  

I guess it was a kind of ritual.  The summer came, the house got painted and the boys got their pie.

You know, now I come to think about it, the summer of ’42 was the last time this place was whitewashed.  

The real estate guys tried to get it painted in an effort to sell it after the kerfuffle had died down, but either 
the painters took the money and ran without doing the job, or the paint just wouldn’t take. 

In all my years I have never yet seen a house look as shining white as this one did back in those days.  Back 
when I gardened, the boys painted and everything was good.  

Back in the days before sadness came to roost.

If I remember rightly, the boys ate their pie in July that year and before it was even fully digested it seems, 
they were off to war.  

Rob was nineteen then, his brother only a year behind and that made them eligible to be called up to do their 
duty but, like many a youth in those days,  even before they were called, they signed up.

“We have to, Ma” Rob had said trying to explain to his very worried mom, “It’s our duty.”  All the time 
their father beamed proudly down at them from his portrait above the mantelpiece.  

You see, old Bill was in the last war.  He died about eight or nine years after that one ended.  

The Doc said his failed health and eventual death was brought on by a mustard gas attack he suffered back in 
the trenches.

Of course, knowing that and the other terrible things that can happen during a war, their mom, Abigail, was 
very much against their going.  Hell, what kind of mom would she have been if she weren’t?  

But knowing she couldn't have stopped them, Abi let them go, hiding her tears as they walked down that 
green corridor, knowing that they may never come back.  

In that, at least partially, she was right.

It was late in September when the telegram came informing Abi about her eldest son.  They said that he died 
bravely while taking part in a vital mission.  

Leastwise that’s what they said, but then they always said that, didn’t they?  As if it would soothe the poor 
parents to know that they hadn’t died for nothing.  

In Rob's case though, I know different.  I found out around seven years after that Rob had died a needless, 
pointless death. 

Seems that he was onboard the USS Wasp on loading duties.  That’s loading canon for all you younguns 
who don’t know about such things.  

There must’ve been a backfire or misfire or whatever the hell those navy boys called it.  Whatever they 
called it, it meant death to poor Rob.  

The shell casing flew out the back of the gun as fast as the shell flew out the front.  It rattled around the little 
enclosure Rob was standing in smashing everything in it.  

Once the clattering had died down they went in and had to scrape what was left of poor Rob off the walls 
and floors.  

By coincidence, the Wasp was lost at sea only a week later, sunk by a Japanese sub.  Hell of a world ain’t it?

Abi took it terribly.  She wouldn’t accept that Rob would never come back and spent a lot of her time 
standing at the window on the second floor looking out, her eyes continually searching the tree-lined walk 
for any sign of him.  

One day she came running down those stairs so fast that I thought she would fall and break her neck.  She 
was screaming Rob's name over and over and ran, waving, down the path.  

The depression that followed when she realised that she had only caught a glimpse of the mailman was awful 
to watch.  She seemed to age at least fifteen years, right in front of my eyes.  

She turned and walked back into the house, back upstairs, back to the window to resume her tireless vigil.

It was on that day that I first noticed the paint peeling off the outside walls.  It was as if the house itself was 
also grieving.  

Sounds stupid doesn’t it?  Yeah I know it does, I can see it in your eyes, but to me it seemed that way.  
Even the windows were starting to look grubby and that was also a first.  Abi had always been a stickler for 
cleanliness in the house.

The deterioration of both Abi and the house went into an even steeper downward spiral about a month later 
when the second telegram arrived.  

Pete was in Cactus Airfield on Guadalcanal when the Japanese bombed and destroyed it.  

He was running past a gas tanker when it took a direct hit.  Everyone wished he had died quickly but it 
weren’t the case.  Pete was sprayed with burning gasoline and died some six agonizing hours later from near 
100% burns.  

It’s a wonder he didn’t die sooner given the severity of his injuries.  But then real life ain’t like the movies.  

Real life will stick you with a knife and run it around a bit before removing it.  

Real life will shoot you in the gut so it will take you hours to die.  

Real life will set you alight, let you burn, then let you live a few hours longer so you can really know pain.  

Yeah I sound bitter, but so would you if you had witnessed what the death of her two boys did to Abi.  
Their deaths literally tore the poor woman apart.  

She lost the tenuous grip she had on reality at the moment she finished reading that last telegram.  It was 
almost audible, like the snap of a string on tennis racket.  

Her eyes glossed over as the crumpled piece of paper slipped from her fingers to the floor which, 
incidentally, was now devoid of varnish in many spots.  

Abi completely withdrew from the world after that, but she still stood at that blessed window looking for the 
boys who would never come walking back up the path.  

Occasionally I would hear her talking to them as if they were still there.  

It was a terrible thing to watch and a godawful thing to hear.  

I tried to talk to her now and then, trying to bring her back to the land of the living.  My wife Lizzie, who 
was fond of Abi, often took time to try a chat with her, but Abi just stood, looking out the window as if we 
weren't even there.

By this time I’d guess that about a quarter of the paint had peeled off the outside walls and drifted to the 
ground like snowflakes.  

I would almost swear that the lintels above the windows had drooped slightly in the middle as if the house 
was crying, but that had to be my imagination.  

Didn’t it?

Abi stood at that window for nearly three months.  I thought about getting the Doc on more than one 
occasion but thought that it would be better for Abi to be in her home rather than in some sanitarium getting 
a lobotomy or some such.  

Then Christmas drew close and I knew that it was going to be a very hard time for her, so I asked her to stay 
with my wife and I for the whole Christmas holiday.  

She roused from her morbid vigil at the window long enough to shake her head and say, “No, I must be here 
for my boys.  They’ll be home for Christmas.  You’ll see".

There was no talking to her about it, really.  I had tried my best over the past months but she just wouldn’t 
accept their deaths.  

So in the end, my wife and I decided to go there for Christmas, knowing that it was going to be terribly 
difficult but we felt sure that we could be of some comfort to her.

As we walked up the once-green corridor, (winter having claimed all the leaves that fluttered and waved in 
the summer breezes), we noticed that the house no longer had that look as if it were crying.  

It now looked like it was positively scowling!  

My wife was commenting on it as a look of dread washed over her face.  She shakily asked that we go back 
home, but I said no, feeling strongly that we should be there for Abi.  

It was Abi's first Christmas without her boys, after all, and she would need us.

We reached the front porch and realised another peculiar thing.  Every last speck of paint was now gone 
where there had been some just the day before and the now bare, wooden boards had darkened to a shade 
not to far short of black.  

I looked up, expecting to see Abi at the window, but she wasn’t there.  

Dread now wrapped it's icy fingers around my heart and I told Lizzie to stay put, that something was wrong 
and I had to find out what it was.  

Lizzie didn’t protest.  She must’ve felt it too because she just stood and waited on that dark porch.

I banged on the door with my fist, already turning the doorknob and pushing in. “Abi!” I called, “Its George, 
Abi!  Where are you?”, but all I got in reply was silence.  

I walked to the stairs that led to the first floor, getting more and more worried as I went.  I poked my head 
round the corner of the stairs to check to see if Abi was in the lounge room, 

but nope, no one was there and hadn't been in there since the first telegram arrived.  It was thick with dust.

I started up the stairs, still calling Abi’s name and getting no response.  

At the top of the stairs I walked to the end of the corridor and put my head in one doorway then the next.  
Still no Abi, so I turned and headed back towards the front of the house to where Abi had spent all that time 
watching for her boys.  

When I got there I noticed the impression her feet had left in the rapidly darkening carpet.  With a shock I 
suddenly realised that everything in the house was turning darker by the minute!  

I don’t mind admitting that it frightened the bejezus out of me!  I looked out of the window and saw that 
Lizzie had retreated to the path and was nervously eyeing the house.

It was then that I noticed the small, clear puddle on the windowsill.  I bent slightly to touch my finger to it, 
then licked my finger to see what it tasted of.  I winced, as I tasted the salt in it.  

I couldn’t guess what it was.  I thought it may have been condensation at the time, but the windows were 
clear and condensation doesn’t normally have salt in it, does it?

My puzzlement lasted only a few seconds though, because right then I heard a creak behind me.  The sound 
was so distinctive it was almost as if I had been magically transported on board one of those old galleons 
that used to sail the seas.  

It was the sound of wood settling and of rope stretching.  

With a heart so heavy with dread it was positively wallowing in the bottom of my stomach, I realised what 
had to have caused that sound.

Only one other thing that I know of makes a sound like that.

Gallows.  

I turned around, fearing what I might see but knowing I had to look anyway.

There were two shoed feet dangling just below the ceiling, over the stairs.  

Lady's shoes on lady's feet.  The same ones Abi wore all those months standing at the window.  

I can still see in my minds eye the scuffmarks her feet made on the rapidly fading wallpaper. 

I rushed to the stairs already knowing that it was too late and grabbed poor Abi’s legs.  I pushed her 
upwards, feeling sick as I looked into her bloated face, her blue tongue lolling lifelessly out of her mouth.  

It didn’t look like the Abi I had once known.  The happy Abi who used to lovingly do the everyday chores 
and used to make her sons delicious apple pies in reward for their hard work.  

I began to weep at the terrible sadness of it all, and then I knew what the puddle on the windowsill was.  

I guess Abi just couldn’t hide from it anymore.  The realisation that the boys would never come home must 
have finally sunk in on Christmas morning.  

She must’ve stood and wept openly for the first time at the window, her tears causing that puzzling puddle.  

She probably went down into the cellar and retrieved the rope and ended it here, where she had spent so 
much of her time since that first life-shattering telegram arrived.

I reached up and with the penknife I always carry with me, cut her poor lifeless body down.  

I carried her downstairs, my eyes awash with the bitter sting of my tears but even while they were streaming 
I couldn’t help noticing the wallpaper rapidly growing browner and visibly peeling from the walls.  

Whatever was happening in this house, it was speeding up.

I staggered onto the porch and, as if on cue, the house wailed!  That’s the only way that I can describe it 
now.  

I have heard woodwork groaning before under pressure, but this was more than that.  

It was loud, oh so darned loud!  I thought my ears would burst!  

A window shattered somewhere and several tiles slid off the roof, the sound of their falling muffled by the 
inhuman cry coming from the house. 

I staggered towards Lizzie who looked at poor Abi’s limp, lifeless body in my arms.  She began to cry as we 
stepped onto the path, trying to get away from the house and the terrible groaning that seemed to pour out 
of every window like thick molasses.

As we hurried along, stumbling and tear-blinded down walk, the branches of the trees seemed to be growing 
more twisted and tangled than they had been before.  

It got so thick by the time we got to the end of the path that we had to literally fight our way through and 
when we turned to look back, we could only just see the house; the terrible wailing diminished by distance 
but not gone.

I wish now that the trees had grown enough so that we couldn’t see it at all.  

The entire house was black;  jet-black.  There was no light coming from it at all nor reflected off of it.  

The roof was sagging a little in the middle and several windowpanes were now broken.  Even as we 
watched, more tiles slid from the roof and a few wooden boards fell from the walls.  

It was such a huge change from the beautifully bright house that it once was that I had to just stand and 
stare.

Then I noticed the figure standing at the window on the second floor where Abi had spent so much time.  

I blinked to make sure I wasn’t seeing things that weren’t there.  When my vision cleared the figure was still 
visible.  A pale outline in that dark window. A pale figure that I realised was Abi but couldn’t have been.  

I held Abi's cold body in my arms, yet there she was, standing at the window again, as she had for the past 
three months.

As I watched, two other dim figures appeared beside and behind her.  They put their hands on her shoulders 
and she turned to them.  

Abi took their hands and they walked deeper into the house.  

Abruptly, the terrible wailing of the house stopped.  One or two more tiles crashed to the floor and 
somewhere there was a thud as a final board fell, but then there was silence, 

broken only by mine and Lizzies sobbing and the call of a wood pigeon.  

All again seemed peaceful as it had in times past even though the house remained dark as pitch and Abi still 
lay dead in my arms.

Lizzie and I turned our backs on the place then, not daring to look back over our shoulders until we had 
reached our small house four miles away.  

I finally called the Doc that day, just like I had thought of doing but put off for all these months.  

I explained over the phone what had happened to Abi so that he knew he didn’t have to rush and maybe 
break his own fool neck hurrying to get here.     

Of course I left out the part about the house.  I didn’t fancy the chance to stay in the Sanatorium anymore 
than I thought Abi would have.

So, I kept quiet about that inhuman cry and the way that the house seemed to grieve, and I stayed away 
from it too, in case I might hear it again.

This is the first time that I have been back in nearly fifty-seven years and it still looks the same as how I last 
saw it.  

Still feels the same too.  

Of course I heard the local rumours about the place.  

Rumours that the ghosts of a mother and her two boys wander the halls here. I guess in my heart I knew 
they were together again but I would never really accept it, even when people said that they could smell 
apple pie cooking in the kitchen.

It took coming back here, seeing the place again, to convince me that my memory of  '42 is a clear one.  
Everything did happen the way I thought it did.  

I did see the boys return to be with their loving mother.  

It was the three of them, together again that Christmas morning, standing at the widow, looking out on what 
probably still was to them, the shining place that had been and I guess in a way, will always be their 
cherished home.
   
Of course you are free to make up your own minds on the matter, but I know what I saw that day, as I know 
that probably most of you will go home tonight and laugh at the crazy old man who thinks that houses can 
grieve.  

But I have told you the truth as I know it, and I can tell by the looks in your eye’s that some of you believe, 
and that makes the taunts and the jibes that I will undoubtedly get, worthwhile.

Now, for the first time in 57 years, I may just get a decent night’s sleep.

Maybe.

The End

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