When I was growing up in my old neighborhood, there was a house we always avoided. It is not uncommon to hear this from people, but this house was one that no one went near. Not even on a dare, or a double dare, or a triple dog dare. It was just something that none of the kids in the neighbourhood would do.
The house existed in the shadows of the escarpment, a darkly shaded monstrosity that was all crooked angles and ominous groans. Walking past it, you could often hear strange noises drifting from the creaking, hulking mass of the old crooked house. We would hear groans sometimes, almost like it was sagging into itself. Other times, there would be a soft, low, whistling that drifted out toward the street almost daring us to venture forth.
We never would though.
There were stories about that house, dark and evil stories filled with blood, torture, torment, and despair. Even with the wanton recklessness of youth on our side, we knew better than to tempt the fates.
In our adolescent years, we grew a little bolder, but our brazenness was limited to sipping home brew beers stolen from our parent's cellars and staring in at the old crooked house from the pool of light cast down by the streetlight above.
We would talk about sneaking through the shadowy yard and knocking on the door. We would talk about standing there and waiting for someone to answer the door. Inevitably at that point, the conversation would turn to who would answer the door.
Sometimes we would hypothesize a dark, demonic force; other times a radiant half-naked succubus who would drag us into her lair and have her way with our nubile teen aged bodies.
But it was all a farce. The closest we came to that house was the stones we kicked in its direction.
The fact that I had never summoned the courage to approach the house always loomed over me, even after I moved to the big city for my big job. Even after I fell in love with my big love and we started our big family. All those big accomplishments only served to reinforce the fact that I had never been big enough to knock on that door.
One summer, I drove back home with my family packed in our big minivan. I had made up my mind to go and knock on that door. With age and maturity on my side this time, I now imagined an elderly gentleman answering the door and greeting me with a smile that told me how happy he was to finally have someone stop by for a visit.
I excused myself after dinner, claiming a need for fresh air, and slowly wandered down those familiar old streets towards the old crooked home. When I finally arrived there, I was greeted by a vacant lot filled with scraggly grass and charred tree stumps.
The house had burned down two summers before under mysterious circumstances. I would not have my moment.
As I slowly turned to head back home, a soft groan drifted out from the lot.
It was enough to put a little extra pep into my step.
No comments:
Post a Comment