haunted

The haunted house on my street has been sold again.

It’s not haunted in the traditional sense – it’s not crumbling, or falling apart, vines aren’t creeping up over its’ surface, there’s no rusty iron gate at it’s entrance. It’s disappointed.

Ten years ago, they finished building it, and within months, a family moved in. Within another couple of months, they were gone. And it’s been like that for the past ten years. I snuck in during an open house after the fourth family left (I was twelve), determined to see if there was a ghost there. I didn’t believe in ghosts anymore then, but there had to be something that was making families move out as soon as they moved in. I cleverly hid in a closet, somehow wasn’t discovered by the real estate agents walking around to make sure everything was in perfect order for the next day, and imagined myself solving the mystery and writing a series of Nancy Drew like books about it.

After the real estate agents left I got out of my hiding place and explored the place from top to bottom. There was nothing unusual about it. I waited until midnight but nothing appeared (I was disappointed though I refused to admit it for ages). Figuring I’d be in trouble enough, I took my things and left for home. Mum answered the door absolutely speechless when she saw me, and I remember saying, “There are no ghosts in the haunted house,” and going up to bed.

I remembered that night vividly when I saw the house had been sold today. Another family – another couple months, they’ll disappear too. Maybe I’m making too much of it –maybe there’s something wrong with it that my twelve year old eyes never saw. Maybe I’ve got to give up that old child-like fascination with it and stop thinking of it as haunted.

Maybe the real reason that it’s haunted is because no family lived there long enough to make it a home.