Haunted House

Waking from sleep I have the old childhood fear

Waking from sleep I have the old childhood fear - I am being watched, I am going to get got, I am haunted. I look to the water bottle sitting on the floor just out of reach, feeling a clawing presence from beneath the bed. I make quick steps on tiptoes. In the encroaching summer heat I leave my door spread legged to the dark hallway and adjacent attic room where only the last dregs of city light find their way, leaving a leering shadow dance for my child eyes to frenetically search.

Despite overheating I cover my feet with the blanket.

Anatomy of a haunted house suggests the house itself being the haunter, not some spectre with unfinished business, some demon bloody mary... “The house hates you”. And in my half sleep that was the reason, as it is an old house, or at least one carrying a tangible history - watercolour continents have taken residency on the belly of the ceiling from the winter’s rain, the iron window frames are rusted shut, the parquet regularly misaligns from warping and a seemingly hasty construction years earlier. As well, this is the attic room of a fourth floor apartment and ghosts don’t climb stairs.
Despite, however, the superficial blemishes and misuse these walls might bear, I look around in daylight to see a house so well loved, inhabited by people who wish to treat it with a kindness one would their family. This house would not haunt, at least maliciously.

More, the house is greeting you; it doesn’t hate you, it is merely curious about its new inhabitant. After two months of exploring how you might fit yourself in these walls, the walls themselves wish to see how they might fit around you. They say “I appreciate your rest and movements on my tiles and wooden floors, your guitar leaning against my drywall, your books on my shelves, your observance of the oddly placed ceiling window in the low corner of this room. I love you, I wish to care for you if you show me the same respect.”

For, such respect is earned, and not demanded. Sitting on the floor, scanning the art created in that very same room; decorating the space with your scarves and photos, bringing a diverse ecology to the whitewash; drifting into sleep with the late sun bridging the celestial with your small space of safety and comfort. The energy you have emitted here soothes the structure thru all seasons.

There is no haunting when all you’ve shown the space is love and awe.

And/or, the house is telling me to clean my fucking room.

~

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