Once, I explained how my Mom has a passion for all things spooky. The house across the street from us was the perfect fuel for her fire.
The house looks welcoming, almost idyllic with its large porch, the overhanging roof that lets you sit out on a rocking chair and read the newspaper and wave to the neighbors as they drive on by.
That’s what the people did who lived there when I lived across the street. I was six. They were in their early 70s, a brother and a sister. He wore a hat, straw, and she wore dresses everyday with stockings and those black shoes that tie. I remember one dress in particular was chocolate brown.
On Fridays, he would drive her to visit with her friend, at the end of the alley (less than 500 feet). She would sit in the back, and he would sit in the front and escort her down the way. Every Friday, right after lunch, that white-colored sedan, with the gray tint would drive past, with her in the backseat. My brother and I would laugh every time — even thought they were kind and sweet, and gave us nickels on our birthdays. (When we drove by on our bicycles and made wide circles in front of their house, explaining that it WAS our birthdays.)
Then the brother would go back home and wait. Three thirty was the pick-up time. But one day, just before 2, there was a gunshot. My Mom heard it. He pointed a gun to his head and killed himself in the back seat of that car. It was such a clear, beautiful spring day, not a cloud in the sky, I remember my Mom saying.
My Mom had the duty of going to the neighbor’s house to tell the sister what had happened. The sheriff said it “would be better if the news came from a female.” I remember her agonizing over what to say… but at my age, her fretting made little sense to me. When my Mom spoke the dreadful words, your brother has just killed himself,” the sister said simply, “I was afraid he would do something like that.”
When our parents weren’t looking, my brother and I went across the street and peeked in the backseat window of the car. I saw a small pile of pink flesh… but hardly any blood. Just a little drop… that always surprised me. It seemed like the car sat there forever… but I’m sure they probably took care of it pretty quickly.
Years before, I learned later, another man that lived in that same house also killed himself. He did it upstairs in one of the bedrooms. I could never figure out why someone that old would want to kill themselves at that point — I mean, they’ve come this far….
The next family that moved in was just plain weird. A family, with babies and toddlers that never seemed to smile. Even though we were right across the street,I don’t think we ever exchanged words. The Mom looked like an overweight Morticia, with the same dark black slinky hair. I don’t think she washed it often, hence the silky quality to her hair.
Years passed, and their son reached the age of 17. He’s already been sent to a juvenile correctional facility for some kind of theft. They warned him, if he screwed up again, the next time he’d go to jail — the correctional facility was done with him. The night of his graduation, he got into some stolen car mess. The sheriff came to pick him up from his home after dark.
He was searched, pushed head down into the backseat of the police car, and they started their 45 minute drive to the big house. The officers failed to find that gun that the kid slid into his sock. I guess, in that small town, they just didn’t expect it, and not from a thief. So, at just the right moment, the kid pulled it out, somehow, and shot himself in the head. Again, in the backseat of a car.
One fall day, I called to say Hi to Mom. She was making zucchini bread for the new neighbors that just moved in that house across the street. “Don’t you think you ought to tell them? I think they’d appreciate knowing that — much more than the bread?” I was convinced that the first guy who killed himself there was still haunting the inhabitants, engaged in some kind of foul play. Still, something was in that house that attracted certain people to it. I doubt that it was the porch.
She laughed me off. They were a newly married couple, with a baby. My Mom really liked them. Within three months. They moved out. Something about the house… they just didn’t like it. They found a new house and were gone even before the creepy place sold.
Did this really happen? How creepy is that! That is a foul house!
Yes. Looking back now, it’s hard for me to believe I grew up right across the street. And, it’s one of those sweet little towns where nothing happens… out in the open.
At the time of course, I thought nothing of it. Now that I have kids of my own, it just creeps me out to think about raising a family right there.
“something evil this way comes……”
excellent recreation of the houses history… i want a haunted house…..
It might sound cool to own a haunted house. But not if it drove you or someone you loved to kill them selves. My sister (SusieJ) and I always felt sorry for everyone who moved into that house.
Wow! Definitely something foul going on in that house. Maybe the house will get demolished…
A very disturbing tale which you have made an excellent read.
Well told. I’ve heard stories of houses like this but don’t personally know one! Grin. I think it might be fun to haunt one, but surely not to live in one that already had its haunter.
that is creepy. and you looked in the backseat?!? ick. very brave of you.
Painted Maypole… I wish so much I did not look. But I can’t remember, as I look back, if I even gave it a second thought at six.
Well written … You made me shudder!
Great story, thoroughly enjoyed it.
What a malevolent presence there must be in that house. Such a tragic tale.
That was a well written piece – intense, and it keeps your attention.
There is an argument that ’emotions’ can cling to an environment, and sensitive people can somehow pick this up, even changing their behaviour.
No proof, of course.
Well written & riveting. When are you publishing a book, Susie? You certainly have a gift.
What a tale!
Nicely told! I do sometimes wonder – in the face of everything else I believe in – whether ‘echoes’ can live on in a house.
Cute banner, scary story. I think that house has bad joss.
Wow, I don’t know whether to be spooked out or saddened. There was a house at the end of our block growing up that was like a revolving door. It attracted singles and young marrieds, but nobody stayed longer than four or five months.
Perhaps things happened at that house years before that nobody wanted to talk about? Creepy.
this creeps me right out – and I’m the girl who lived above a funeral home for YEARS.
This one sure does make one wonder…
Some houses are like that. They send such bad vibes.
fouled up, have you?
You really do have the gift, girl. This story drew me right in, and while it is spooky, the overall sadness of the place takes center stage. Well done!
I’ve been wanting to join in on the Sunday Scribblings, but haven’t managed it yet. Maybe this will be my weekend! I’m going to go and check it out. Thanks for the inspiration, and for visiting my “photo hunt” post!
My goodness. I’m glad that foul play didn’t travel across the street to your family’s house….
Freaky Susie. Really Freaky.
Oh my goodness. This story gave me chills!!!! Quite a story. Just amazing.
i totally believe that houses have those lingering spirits haunting the halls…
Oh, that is a creepy one, Susie! All the makings of a great ghost story…
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Hi Susie. What a wonderful and almost Faulkner-like telling of you experience with a scary house. I like the tone and voice you tell it with. I was horrified by the pink flesh part … it jumped at me out of nowhere. I like how your pacing was safe and words were simple until that moment because after that the reader needed that calm to get through the amazing chain of events. Thank you for sharing your story with us. I was very moved by it.
-Damien (‘here comes the judge’ Riley! 😉
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Hey Susie, thanks again for entering. This one is one of the scariest I’ve read (and you know I read a lot of scary). I appreciate you.
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