The Old Victorian House
The 'instances' began to occur soon after my parents, myself and four
brothers moved into an old Victorian House in a small town in Iowa. The
house was rather dilapidated, long since shed its former glory with its
peeling paint. But it suited my parents' pockets and with such a large
family the four bedrooms had great appeal.
All too soon we learned if we wanted to live in the house with some semblance
of peace we had best delegate what we call the 'back bedroom' in that you had to pass
through another bedroom to get to it, to an unseen inhabitant that
stocked the night in agitated frustration if you dare to venture into her room.
When we first moved in, the back bedroom, unlike the rest of the house
retained a vintage of it past. Filled with treasures that would fancy any
child's delight. A beautiful bedroom set, complete with vanity and an
ornate wardrobe closet, filled with clothes and finery that would suggest
that a 'lady' had once occupied the room. We kids, loved to play in that
room well my parents undertook the job of renovating the house.
The first instances that denoted a unseen presence in the house was an odd
patterned sound heard late in the night. Sort of a shuffle-shuffle-knock
across the creaking wood floors upstairs. This was always followed by our
dog's sudden agitation. Laying at the foot of the stairs, he'd twitch his
ears, then bare his teeth and begin to growl as if he saw someone standing
at the top of the stairs. An investigation would reveal no one was there.
As the weeks progressed, other things began to occur. Little nuances that
more often than not pointed the finger at the five child occupants. Lights
left on. The water in the kitchen sink would be found running full blast
in the morning and on occasion the front door would be found standing wide
open when my father distinctly recalled locking the door before he retired.
The shuffling sound became more pronounced, occurring nightly. My parents
bedroom, located on the first floor, would often awaken to the noise,
thinking they had arrant children up and about, my father would stomp up
the stairs prepared to seek justice only to find all five of them tucked
away. Fast asleep.
My father, still convinced it was a child at play, decided to stay up late
one night in hopes of surprising the culprit or culprits. I can not credit
this part of the story, beyond the fact that my father was of a very
serious nature, from the old school that ruled the child with a rod.
At the first sound of the shuffle, my father moved quietly up the stairs,
in hopes of catching the culprit by surprise. As it turns out he was the
one who was surprised. For all his children were still fast asleep. But
something. Someone was awake. The details he described later, denoting
that they had set his hairs standing on end was that the door to the back
bedroom, yet occupied and still filled with the previous owners effects,
lay open.
Sitting at the top of the stairs, my father peered into the
front bedroom where three of his child lay fast asleep, transfixed as he
watched the dresser drawers slid open, only to be shoved shut, then the
mattress springs of the old metal bed shook, as if unseen fingers thought
to wake the children.
My parents, seeking the why or what of it began to dig into it the history
of the house. They knew that there had been only one owner. A women who
had lived well into her eighties. What they didn't know was that she had
died in the house, fell down the stairs and broke her neck.
The back bedroom, had been her bedroom. The furnishings and personal effects hers as well.
And even more disturbing, was the fact that she had in the last
few years of her life become a recluse and a shut in and as such always
wore slippers upon her feet and walked with the assistance of a cane.
Thus explained the mystery of the odd patterned shuffle-shuffle knock across the creaking floor.
The first thing that my father did was to lock the back bedroom. In
essence, sealing it off. An unavowed promise to leave her 'stuff' and
domain alone in the hopes that she would offers us the same courtesy. In
the following six years that we lived in the house, she was rarely
meddlesome or agitated, though her presence was still noted on occasion by
the shuffle-shuffle-knock across the creaking floor. She did have her days
thought.
A few instances I clearly recall was an occasion in the dead of
winter that my parent awoke to the cold in the middle of the night only to
find that once again the front door had been left ajar and in the wake of a
snow storm, three inches of snow cover the entire dining room. We'd would
awaken to find the Christmas tree light blaring into the otherwise
blackness of the living room when my parents clearly recalled unplugging
them.
And on occasion, we'd still find the water facet in the kitchen
running full blast. On these rare occasions, it is interesting to note
that the back bedroom door, her bedroom door, would always be found unlock
and ajar.
