Premonition I
Two years after our move to Maine, living as renters, we decided it was time to buy a house. We looked at a variety of houses and ruled them all out. Six month after we started the process we saw this house that did not meet any of our criteria. It was in an older neighborhood, while we were hoping for a rural area. It had less than an acre of land and we wanted more. It was a big old house, way too big for us. But less than five minutes into the showing I knew that this was it. I looked at the yard, sat on the deck, walked swiftly through the rooms and signed on the offer right then and there. The purchase process went smoothly and within few more months, the time needed for the closing, I (and my husband) became the proud owners of a circa 1920, craftsman style house.
Premonition II
When we realized, two years into our move to Maine that we are not leaving anytime soon, we started to look for a house. Purchasing a permanent dwelling was sort of a statement, that “we are here to stay,” and we had to overcome the feeling of betrayal associated with it. I was wondering, at the time, if that was the reason we found fault in every house we were shown. On the face of it we had firm criteria; the house should be in a rural area, surrounded by a nice piece of land, at least one bedroom and a bathroom on the main floor, big kitchen, and so on. And yet every house, and we saw many, wasn’t the right one.
Almost six month into the search, our real- estate agent, a very dedicated and pleasant men who stuck with us through the tedious process, suggested a change of strategy. He took us to a neighborhood in one of the nearby towns. The older neighborhood, with turn of the century houses, was not at all what I pictured. The houses perched along small quiet streets were big and many of them had intriguing architectural features. None of them looked even slightly similar to the neighborhood I grew up at in Israel.
When he finally stopped his car, at the bottom of a small hill, and pointed at the white house on top I felt the excitement welling up inside me. We walked up the short driveway and onto a big deck overlooking a small but very private backyard, shaded by huge, old as time, pines. I sat next to the patio table, breathed the air in, looked around, and knew that this house was mine. If it wasn’t for my husband insisting that we will actually walk through the house; including the necessary visit to the dreaded musty basement, I would sign on the dotted line right then and there.
A circa 1920 craftsman style house, with one-and-a-half story, a wide porch, low-pitch roof line with eaves, the house had the broad appearance, that is the trademark of this style, simple yet elegant. It is my house now. Every time I walk in I am amazed by the size, the huge kitchen, the high ceilings and the big windows. I learned to listen to the special noises old houses tend to make, enjoy the crackling of the old hot water heating system and the fire in the stove. True, I still close my eyes, and take a deep breath, every time I have to go down to the basement but the mysterious extra set of stairs down there, leading to nowhere, more than makes up for it.
I love the feeling that the house has history and other people lived in it before me. They left their mark in the changes made to the original structure and in many, much smaller, and subtle ways. A line scratched on the stairs’ banister, a hidden hole in the kitchen floor, or even just a whiff of a scent I sometimes imagine I can smell, as I walk from one room to another.
Premonition III
Until I came to Maine I was sure that attics and basements are just a part of horror movies. So, I was amazed to find out when I purchased my first house, a circa 1920 craftsman, that this is all true. Attics do exist and even better yet basements.
Attics and basements, I believe, have a lot in common, their vastness, darkness, cow webs hanging in the corners and the eerie feeling of unknown horrors. Basements I soon discovered have an added feature, a musty smell as if the air is coming from far away dungeons. And the stairs leading to them are always squeaky or falling apart.
I was not ready for it, and don’t know how to get over the fear of living above, or under, a space that is out of sight but always open to the possibilities of hosting unfriendly entities. How to get over the chill that gets me every time I hear the dreaded scuff of footsteps on the stairs, the floor boards whispering and sighing as the house shifts at night. The shudder every time a branch is scraping the window on the second floor, the flutter of a bird trying to hold on to the gambrel roof, the wind moaning as it is brushing against the edge of the chimney. As I sit by myself at night, in my living room, my ears are always wide open to catch the faintest sound and scenes from the latest horror movie, I’ve just seen, are playing in front of my eyes.
I can see the heroine, sitting by herself in her cluttered living room. It is late at night and deadly quiet when suddenly a strange noise is heard from somewhere in the house. I see the fright full realization on her face when she, oh, so subtly raises her head and gaze in the direction of the ceiling (or basement) “It is coming from the attic," I can read her thoughts as if I were a real presence in her mind. “Oh! Not the attic again, “I sigh to myself, knowing with great detail what is coming next.
After a short pause when she seems to be weighing her options, she gets up and walks toward the kitchen. “The kitchen?” I wonder, but immediately understand the clever move. The knife, she cannot proceed without a weapon. And sure enough with the knife in her hand she is now walking up the stairs in the direction of the attic. I watch her with a mixture of anxiety and amazement.
“I cannot believe she is doing it again,” I whisper to myself.
“She knows there is something,” emphasis being on “something,” the great unknown is always so scary. “She knows there is something up there so why is she going by herself with that stupid knife?”
Thousand different thoughts are rushing through my mind at the same time:
“Doesn’t she know? She will open the door just a crack and it will be yanked out of her hands, with an inhuman strength, and she will be dragged into the horrible darkness within a fraction of a second.”
“Can’t she see she stands no chance fighting against the forces of evil all be herself?”
“This is not going to end well.”
I know the odds are against her, she knows that as well and yet every time, in an almost slow motion, she walks to the kitchen, takes the knife and walks up the stairs to the damned attic.
“Girl!”I want to scream at her “didn’t you hear about 911 or maybe the front door instead?”
“How about calling a friend, like I do when I encounter a scary critter on the kitchen floor?”
“There must be a help line for scary attic/basement noises in the middle of the night when you are by yourself, call them and they will walk you through. But whatever you do don’t go up there by yourself.”
But sure enough, she does it every time. Noise, look up, kitchen, knife, stairs, creaking door, the great unknown followed by a long shrilling scream.
So soon after I was tempted into buying this old house, I realized I will have to be well prepared. I will have to know exactly how much time it will take me to make it to the kitchen, and where each knife is. This is reality now, not a laughing matter. One day it is going to happen, I know it with complete certainty. The mysterious sound, the kitchen, the knife, going so slowly, up or down the stairs, the squeaky old door and the loud scream, mine.
