The house. It is haunted. It's an old, creaky house. None of the doors work correctly. Every lock is hinky, every key is difficult, no knob turns, everything is sticky. The wooden gates in the backyard are creaky and broken, barely hold back the storm. Getting in and getting out is difficult. The stairs front and back are old, slippery, dangerous. There are trees in the backyard shedding some kind of pod. If you step on them they are sticky and stinky, super-odiferous. The odors hangs over the backyard and wafts in the the kitchen.The staircase indoors, leading to the upper floors, is super-steep, treacherous, every step an adventure. Every step feels like a disaster in the making.
I am staying here with three furry critters.
One is spooked quite easily, had a rough childhood, probably suffering PTSD, a bit feral, hates men in uniforms, anyone on wheels: skateboard, roller-blades, bicycles. Any loud noise, or fast movement can spook him. He will make noises of viciousness, and will bare his fangs. He lunges at squirrels and rabbits as if he can't wait to leave them bloody carcasses. He is scary. You can't trust him. Danger lurks on every step of every walk. I had a close call in the a.m when a runner ran up behind and cut it close. He nearly got bit. I held the leash like my last thread of being.
The second one, stubby and rotund. A black critter, one-eyed, one of his big brown eyes popped out of his head. He is total Id. Think Robin Williams in his manic phase, on crack. Think Gollum from Lord of the Rings. "Me wants, me wants, me wants." Lovable, but follows my every step. Always on the hunt for food. At feeding time, he whimpers, barks, tells you how important it is to be fed RIGHT NOW! At night he whimpers at the bottom of the stairs. Hidden demons, hidden spirits?
The third one is sweet. He has epilepsy. He is on CDB oil. Once in awhile he bursts into long, sustained barking fits. He barks out the window, at the TV, sometimes into the ether. Often barking into the void, the dark mystic. Maybe at ghosts?!
Pretty sure there is a ghost here.
Once in awhile a very strong waft of perfume moves thru the house. It doesn't seem like a malevolent spirit, but an active one. I get the heebie-jeebies as soon as I enter the house. There is a supreme unease that descends upon me. No good place to lounge. No comfortable chair. There is an old painting looming over the living room. A matronly, distinguished-looking woman, dressed in clothes from the 1920's; a string of pearls, a woman of substance and taste. Is she the ghost who roams here? I asked her once, nothing but stony silence. I waited for her eyes to move, or for a smile to cross her lips, a chill running up my spine, nothing.
And shit always goes wrong here.
I left my phone in a jacket pocket and washed it in the washing machine. Very clean, very dead. I broke the French Press after using it twice. It fell over in the sink and shattered. Things go wrong. Every little thing. It is cold in one room, hot in another. There is no rhyme or reason to the season. I've slipped on the stairs, catching myself, catching a breath of air, one false step away from catastrophe.
I am allergic to this house. There is hair, dog-hair, everywhere. It's a relatively clean place, not cluttered, but there are little white hairs in every crook and cranny, every chair, every couch, every pillow and blanket. Maybe invisible hairs, or essence of hair in the very air? Every breath of mine becomes labored.
Breathing here is a chore, a job. Of course, this is a job. I get paid to be here. Fairly well-paid, but you know, not sure it's worth it. What is the price? Haunted. Even when I finally get back home, I carry a haunted-hang-over and a "dog cold."
Glad to be home in one piece, breathing a bit better this a.m. But, you know, Yikes!
