The Old House

About six months ago my family and I moved into an old house in Tennessee, right in the middle of nowhere! Our only neighbor was a little closer than a half a mile.

The first weird thing that occurred happened a month after we had moved in. I was home alone because my mom was at work, and my dad at the store(two hours away). I remember sitting on the couch when the lamp next to me went out. I then went upstairs to the attic to get a new light bulb.

As I reached the attic I heard strange creaking noises, and started to feel a bit of a shiver down my spine. Thinking it was my imagination I tugged the string to the attic and pulled down the old wooden ladder. As I climbed up the ladder I heard talking and yelling as if a couple were in the middle of a fight. Now feeling terrified I turned around quickly and pushed the ladder back up and ran downstairs to call my mom on our ancient phone in the kitchen.

The second odd thing that happened to me happened after two months of living in the "big old house". I was lying in bed and heard heavy footsteps walking up the stairs, thinking it was my mom coming up to say hi to me from just getting off from work, I rolled back over and drifted back to sleep. I did not sleep for long though. About an hour later I awoke again from hearing the same sound and the door to my bedroom opened and then closed after about three seconds. I then heard heavy breathing and a loud bang. Immediately I sprang up in bed, and felt as if I was about to pass out. I called my parents in my room, and by the time they had gotten in my room I was drowsy, and feeling fine again.

The next day I was home alone once again, and decided to go talk to my neighbor about my experiences at the house. (Our neighbor had lived in the house next to us for basically forever.) I walked half a mile to go see her, and when I got there I assumed that she was a little old lady. I found out later when she opened her heavy front door that I was correct. My neighbor called herself Mrs. Finch. Anyway I had told her about my "strange occurrences" and surprisingly she believed me. I had plans on going over to her house and having her just kind of shun me in disbelief. But instead she had told me that back about twenty years ago there was a murder that had happened in the attic. At first I was very resentful to this. Then remembering what had happened in the past weeks and months, I realized that she must have been telling the truth. Everything seemed so factual, and on top of that Mrs. Finch had no reason to lie to me.

From then on "Mrs. Finch" became one of my favorite people to be around. She told me of her "eerie" occurrences, as she had liked to call them. Whenever my parents weren't home I was either walking to her house or at her house eating some of her mouth-watering oatmeal raisin cookies. After awhile I began to not fear the creaking noises coming from the dead attic. I still have the light pink diary Mrs. Finch had given to me the last time I had seen her. It was her diary when she was a child. Mrs. Finch had told me to read it, and to think about what it had said because it would explain everything I needed to know. I had finished reading her diary in a three hours! That night I had a horrible and violent dream. In the morning I could not remember the exotic dream, but I knew it was not good.

That afternoon as I reached Mrs. Finch’s house I knew something was wrong. As soon as I opened the door this became remotely apparent to me. The smell of Mrs. Finch’s perfume didn't linger in the air, and there was an unbearable stench. Once I walked into the living room, not only did I find out what was wrong, but it was like my dream had flashed in front of my eyes. Mrs. Finch was sitting on her purple marshmallow couch dead. Her eyes open in shock. Not only had this been my dream, but I had witnessed her death. I had witnessed the affectionate rage that had been put into her murder. I had felt the surge of fear flow through her petite body. With that I slowly walked out the front door, the minute diary still clasped in my sweaty palm. By the time I had arrived home, I had tears swelling in my deep blue eyes. I could barely talk when I called the police to report her murder. It took me a very long and painful time until I was ready to read Mrs. Finch’s diary again. But as soon as I did, I felt happy. For I now understood what those eloquently written words meant.

Mrs. Finch's diary told all about the murder that had happened in the attic. Apparently Mrs. Finch had known that the husband was going to kill his wife. Her diary was a recollection of all the events. At the same time I was a little angered by Mrs. Finch’s death. In my mind Mrs. Finch; who was like a mother to me, was not supposed to die this vivid death. It was not supposed to happen like this. In my mind I had always pictured Mrs. Finch dying a peaceful death in her sleep.

The weeks that accompanied Mrs. Finch’s death, were none like I had experienced ever before. Every night I had a more realistic dream than the day before. And every night it seemed as if I was to awake in a puddle of sweat, and breathing hysterically.

Around two months after Mrs. Finch died I finally learned to cope with her death. I think a major part that helped me was her diary. Bringing back memories that I had once known and loved. To tell the truth once in awhile I believe I can still hear her easy going voice, and smell the soft fragrance she always wore.

Submitted by IL, USA