The House

When I was a little girl there was an old house not far from my mothers. It was a large house built just before the civil war. During the hot summer months my older brother and our cousins use to play at a creek that ran by the old house. Every time when they would return from playing near the house they would tell me chilling tales of the scary house. Some people have even said that the house was owned by a young family until it was forcibly taken over by soldiers and used as a hospital for the injured and the dying. One tale that made the hairs on my arm stand up was when my brother told me that he saw something moving and even looking out through a broken window.

As I got older the stories died off and the curiosity of going into the house stayed with me. I felt drawn and even pulled to see things for myself. Then on a hot summer afternoon I decided to go to the old house.

It was rundown and neglected as I remembered. I carefully walked towards the house. I noticed how the yard had been unkept. It was overgrown with weeds, sticker bushes, and vines that twisted and tangled across the ground. I pushed myself on towards the house and began to slowly walk up the wooden steps. They were broken, lose and with every step I took the steps would creak and crackle. I held onto the rails for support. They were once painted white but were now stained by the passing years of weather.

The paint from the rails would flake off into my hands. I took a deep breath and before me I saw a large wooden door. I reached with sweating hands for the blackened heavy metal door knob. You could hear it sing out a loud squeaking echo into the house. It was a wrenching sound you could almost feel deep inside of you. It alerted the ghost of my very presences. My heart was now racing and I could feel the adrenalin running and dancing though my veins. I stood there for a few a seconds unable to move. My eyes began to move about the room. The ceilings were high but the windows felt hypnotizing. They were large like eyes watching you from inside. But you could barely look though the windows because of the dingy haze of dirt that covered them. The air smelt musty and stale. I began to wonder around the old neglected house.

Dust covered everything from the ragged draperies to the few remains of furniture that was broken and tossed about the rooms. But what caught my eye was an old wheel chair that sat easily in a far corner of the room. It brought back all the blood curdling stories of when I was a little girl. I did not feel as if I was alone. The house had a presence of its own. But my curiosity was driving me on. I started up the stairs. The stairs were steep and narrow and with every step I took the house creaked and echoed my foots steps. When I got to the tops of the stairs I could see 4 rooms surrounding a small sitting area. I looked around taking in all the details from the peeling wallpaper to the moldings that decorated the door ways. In the back of my mind I could see how this house must have looked before the war. I could picture children running up and down these stairs. At that moment I felt a cold chilling breeze that made my skin crawl and the hairs on the back of neck stood up. Then I remember the tales of the injured and dying soldiers. I began to feel uneasy and nervous. I noticed that it was getting late and I better be going. I turned to go down the stairs. When up above me I could hear something being dragged and being pulled across the floor. I hurried to the door but before I left. I turned my head over to glance at the wheel chair in the far corner. To my surprise it was not there instead it was over by the window as if someone was sitting there to watch me leave. I then grabbed the door and ran out and down the broken steps and towards the end of the yard onto the road.

I looked back at the house. Now I too think I have seen something or someone moving in the windows and looking out at me.

I ran home never again to return to the old house.

Contact me here: zoyablue@hotmail.com

Submitted by Zoya, Virginia, USA