A Haunted House

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Our new house was one of the oldest buildings in the town of Burma. Estranged from the main town by a 30-minute walk, it was what my mother called, “an island away from islands.” The family’s realtor, Boye, convinced my father to purchase the building apparently because it was “affordable.” In fact in the realtor’s exact words, he said, “take this building, Mr. Frank, trust me it doesn’t come cheaper than this. A house with such a luxurious history shouldn’t be selling at such a price but you know what they say, ‘times have changed’”

That was it. Even though affordability had never been something father considered when purchasing anything, he bought the supposed ‘antique building’ much to my chagrin.
Consequently we left the fun and lively city of Burchamp to an island away from islands where my only companion was a sea of crickets that chirped endlessly throughout the day.
As my father’s only surviving car—a 2016 edition Ford Taurus X clawed its way down the dusty and dizzying road north of Burma toward our new home, a feeling of nostalgia took hostage of me: I missed my friends in Burchamp, I missed our timeless home in Burchamp which overlooked the sea and more importantly I missed the air of modernity which enclothed Burchamp like a gird. However as the car bypassed throngs of dust-crated trees of varying species which embanked the road, and Daddy remained locked in a conversation regarding the architecture of our new home, I realized that there was no turning back. The sheer thought of living the better part of my life within the walls of a secluded building left me awash with fear. What if a monster attacked us in the middle of the night?
*
The family’s realtor, Mr. Boye, was part of a handful of men who were very popular with my father because of their ardent desire to bend the truth in order to get what they wanted. As part of his profile, Mr. Boye was blessed with a string of lies which dated back several years before he became our family’s realtor, however as we pulled up within sight of the antique building Mr. Boye had sung so much about, I realized the latter had pulled off the atypical behavior of telling the truth—something which didn’t please father as much as it pleased mother.

When we finally arrived at the sun-bathed gates of the building, my mother let out a huge gasp which reverberated throughout the vicinity. I figured she’d been hiding the slaughtering desire to gasp at the timelessness of the building for too long a time. The building looked like one of the buildings I’d seen in a BC class but I couldn’t quite recollect the category of architectural style it belonged to. It was built into the face of a cliff thereby making it appear to magically hang as if fused into the vertical precipice. And as we trudged our way into the building, one thing became apparent to me, the timeless structure which now occurred to me as one of those neo-Gothic structures of the 1740s had endured the relentless pull of gravity for about four centuries, never deviating from its original purpose of insulating its occupants from the modern world. However as it stood there, in its, archaic glory, it was no more than a deviation from normalcy.

When we came within walking distance of the main door, we saw the diminutive figure of a man waiting for us. The realtor quickly told us the wizened figure was Mr. Cosmos, the man in whose care the previous owners had entrusted the building. Mr. Cosmos appeared to be in his late sixties however he spoke with an air of arrogance about him as though he were the actual owner of the building. The less said about the villainous stare which he cast on us, the better. At that moment it became very clear to me that our realtor had duressed the old man into selling the building.

“Mr. Sowah, I assume?” the old man intoned as we pulled up right in front of him.

“Guilty as charged,” my father said in a humorous tone.

“You’re very welcome,” the old man said, trying to hide his distaste with what was happening.

“Okay shall we?” the realtor dived in before my father and the old man could delved any deeper into whatever it was they intended to talk about.
After a long awkward sixty seconds in which I’d learned enough from Mr. Cosmos’s demeanor to know that he wanted nothing more than to see us return to wherever the hell we came from, the old man blurted, “Yes we shall. Please follow me.”
*
That evening as I lay curled up in my bedsheet, my heart rattled like a jackhammer as my mind ran wild with a phalanx of macabre thoughts. Early on as Mr. Cosmos took us on a tour around the house we’d seen the strangest thing I’d ever seen in my life: at the back of the building where an awning had previously been built to serve as a shade for the previous owners who loved to sit outside, and while away their time reading and writing poems, a wooden chair sat with what appeared to be a skull lying obliviously in it. Apparently Mr. Cosmos hadn’t come across the grotesque sight before—something which made me wonder as I lay in bed, whether or not Mr. Cosmos was the actual caretaker of the building. If his previous demeanor was anything to go by, Mr. Cosmos didn’t like that we’d bought the house.
A rattle at my door was what it took to push me out of my thoughts as my mother made her way into my room. Apparently she’d been calling me for some time, all to no avail.

‘Hey baby,” she said, sounding motherly as usual.
‘Hey,” I said, turning away from her as if to communicate that I was about to hit the hay.
“You didn’t seem happy early on so I thought it wise to come check up on you just to make sure you are okay….”

“Well mum, as you can see I am coping. Thank you.”

“Sweetie if you have any problems please be upfront with them. Your father and I will see how best to go about it….”

“My problem is why the hell we had to come here? We left everything mum. Just to be here, in this shit-hole!” I snapped, my temper rising.
She pulled away from me, looking as shocked as I was.

“I am sorry. I didn’t mean to snap like that,” I apologized, drawing a smile from her.

“I understand your reservations about coming here. For what it’s worth I wasn’t given to the idea either. But you know your father, when he wants something, there’s no stopping him. Go to bed sweetheart. We’ll talk about it in the morning but I advise you start getting used to this place ASAP because I doubt we’ll be moving anytime soon. This is the happiest I’ve seen your father in a long time.”

That said she left the room, leaving me daggered for the night.

                                       *

Sleeping on the fringes of fright, I bolted awake when something rattled in the adjoining room—my parent’s room. Ironically my father had insisted that we stayed the night on the same floor so as to keep an eye out for each other so when the rattle filtered into my ears I had no doubt that it came from my parent’s room. Quickly I climbed out of bed and walked surreptitiously to the door. On a cold chilly night, tucked away so far from the city, such that any shout for help would be drowned out by distance, I couldn’t be more careful.

Fumbling for the door, I covertly unlocked it and stepped onto the corridor which hosted both of our rooms. A piercing midnight air which had filtered into the building coupled with an air of antiquity exploded in my face, riddling my skin with fear. As I tip-toed to my parents’ room which now lay in a foreboding silence, it felt like the longest walk of my entire life. Once in Burchamp I had to trek for four hours to my house when my chauffeur failed to come fetch me after school but even that couldn’t equate to this—I hadn’t dread it as much as I dreaded what could be lying in wait once I knocked at the door. What if someone opened the door and shot me in the stomach or knocked me unconscious? The question clawed at my heart as my trembling hand begrudgingly knocked at the door to my parent’s room. Standing alone in a long corridor which seemed to jut into the mouth of an infinite hallway, awash with fear, I braced up for what lied in wait but nothing happened. I was greeted with an alarming silence which only confirmed one thing: something had happened to my parents!

Instead of taking to my heels, which was probably what my friends in Burchamp or my father would have adviced, I went against my better judgment and threw myself into the door, sending it clattering onto the floor. I went with it, falling painfully on the floor and bruising an elbow in the process. I quickly fumbled for the switch and turned on the light, revealing two bodies lying lifeless on the bed, soaked in blood. I gasped in shock, staggering backwards as beads of blood dripped from my father’s nose onto the parquetry floor. With a baroque-gilded mirror built into a display cabinet, a parquetry flooring and a classic English chesterfield, the room boasted an immense volume of opulence but all that didn’t matter as I stood there trembling uncontrollably. As if unaware of the truth, I shook my mother arduously, hoping that somehow she’d rise above the force pulling her into the immeasurable abyss of death and come back to me. I shook her until my hands were almost glued to her lifeless body. As I held onto her white nightie, shaking her, it felt as if a force had taken possession of my body—something ineffable, something I had never felt before in my entire life, something atypical—a voluntary will to hold onto my mother’s nightie until she out-muscled death and bolted awake. As I held onto her attire, my eyes, spilling streams of tears, it occurred to me that I’d have to live the rest of my life alone, in a world which felt almost alien to me. Perhaps it was the spur-of-the-moment which inspired that murderous revelation but it didn’t defeat the fact that my parents had left me to scramble for the fading vestiges of my life, alone in a building estranged from modernity, and against an enemy I was yet to know.

After fruitlessly praying for a miraculous revival of my mother, my wails reduced into sobs as I recoiled into shape, alit with the truth that my parents had indeed kicked the bucket. The sound of footsteps erupted from across the room as someone trudged up the stairs. Was that Mr. Cosmos? I couldn’t bring myself to find out. After scouring the room for an escape route, it appeared the only way I could give myself a chance at survival was via the window. Still trembling, my knees weakened by the sound of approaching footsteps, it was almost impossible for me to open the window. Realizing how close the footsteps were to me, I retreated and kicked open the window. When I peered through it, the chilly air and the heaviness of darkness exploded in my face yet again, leaving my body jittery with Goosebumps. I jumped out the window before the sound of a bullet rattled into something in the room; judging from the muffled sound the shot made, I figured it was my father’s classic English chesterfield.

The air outside was piercing cold and rife with sobs of dew as the hour neared dawn. Indistinct sounds emanated from the phalanx of trees which kissed the banks of the wall enclosing the building. I took a whiff of the coldness and exhaled, still running albeit my legs felt heavy with fear. As I headed for the gate, I could hear the sound of running footsteps edging ever closer to me. It became clear to me that my death was imminent. I’d seen it before in movies—nobody ever escaped such an ordeal—you were either killed by your attacker or you ran into something and died on the spot—anyhow I knew I’d die one way or the other so I stopped abruptly. I couldn’t bring myself to fight for survival because I was a stranger to the outside world. I had barely registered a night’s sleep in Burma when my parents died so there wasn’t anything for me to live for. Coupled with the fact that my father had sold everything we owned in Burchamp in view of our departure to Burma, there wasn’t anything in Burchamp for to live for either. I knew nothing of my father’s extended family likewise my mother’s. They were the only people I’d known my entire life coupled with my friends in Burchamp and the family realtor, Mr. Boye. However with the people who meant the most to me dead, my life had lost its meaning so I gave up, knelt down and locked my hands behind my head. I’d die in the same serene environment as my parents—the most honorable death I could imagine.

I exhaled loudly sending pangs of breath billowing through the thick fog of the dawn. A ghostly figure approached with a gun pointed at me as I closed my eyes. As I knelt there, I envisaged life in the afterlife and hoped my father had learnt his lesson. Hopefully he wouldn’t buy another antique building based on the word of a man well-renowned for his incomparable ability to bend the truth—especially not one which his wife had called “an island away from islands.” Willing my ears to report what was happening, I could hear the footsteps of my attacker only a breath away from me. I bit into my lip as I braced up for the bullet to pierce into my forehead with its sharpness. At least I’d feel a degree of warmth on a cold night before departing for hades where my parents would be waiting for me. No sooner had I heaped my last sigh than the bullet explode into my head, knocking me off my fucking perch. As I headed for the ground, debilitated by the hotness of the bullet, I prayed, ‘O ye father, may you see what lies under the veil of a haunted house. Take me under your wing mother, and never let me go again for there are monsters—monsters lurking in the shadows.’

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IMAGE TAKEN FROM PIXABAY