I really can’t remember the first time I heard stories about the patch of woods near my home in Columbia. The stories had been told for years, I
guess. Whisperings of strange lights and sounds coming from the old house were just the type of news that interests a twelve-year-old. I had always
been a fan of horror and science fiction movies and so I was spellbound. I made plans to find out for myself if there was any truth to these
stories.
The summer of 1985 was right before my parent’s divorce and mixed feelings ripped through me like wind through a ship’s tattered sails. There
were times when I wanted to run and run and keep running until Missouri was far behind me. At others, I didn’t want to be away from my mom and dad
for even a few hours. The circumstances were perfect for me to go on a quest. I somehow needed to be kept extremely busy and this fit the bill
perfectly.
As far as I know, the patch of woods that kept the old white house hidden from the probing eyes of the world had no official name. Since it was in
the middle of an area full of new housing developments, I always wondered just how the trees had escaped being cleared over the years. It was a
mystery how people even knew of the spirit that supposedly inhabited the house. I never once noticed anyone besides kids poking around the remains.
I myself had explored the woods on several occasions, not really knowing why I was drawn to the house. I could spend an entire day just looking at
the detail in the house and how the trees and vines had grown up right next to the walls, almost seeming to reclaim the old structure.
Being a Boy Scout, I felt that I had the ability to outfit myself for the type of exploring I was planning to do around the old house. I spent the
better part of an afternoon laying out my gear in differing combinations. I finally decided to take a canteen, a flashlight, a pocketknife, and a
whistle. When your twelve, you have to be careful to avoid too much parental interest in things like this so I tried to pack my gear quietly. I was
determined to leave early the next morning since any undertaking involving haunted houses or ghosts should always take place during the daylight
hours.
To my relief, the day dawned bright and sunny. I quietly got dressed and gathered my backpack. I left the house before my parents were up in order
to avoid the inevitable questions which my mother would ask. I didn’t want to have to explain where I was going and what I planned to do there.
Somehow, I felt that this was a highly personal thing and I wanted to keep it all to myself. The old house was about a fifteen-minute walk and I
arrived at the edge of the woods without meeting anyone. The large oak trees gave the property a regal, and somewhat ancient feeling; nothing at all
like the small trees planted in modern housing areas. I stepped into the shade of the giant trees and felt a nervousness in my stomach that was
usually reserved for a boy about to do something he knew he shouldn’t. As I walked toward the house, I began noticing every detail of everything
around me. The rough bark of the trees seemed to jump out at me and the shrubs and plants seemed impossibly green. I glanced up through the canopy of
leaves and noticed that even the clouds were busy arranging themselves into new and strange shapes. Sweat dripped into my eyes, causing me to stop
and wipe them on my sleeve every few yards. For the first time I noticed a peculiar lack of animal activity. The day was beautiful and warm. There
should have been the singing of birds and the chatter of squirrels in the trees.
I paused as the house came into view. It looked different somehow. The sun was bright and hot and the scene should have been well lit, but the
house seemed dark. Part of the house looked like new and other parts looked like they were ready to crumble to the ground. It was sort of like a
double exposure in a camera that puts two images on the same frame of film. The images seemed to pulse back and forth. One moment the house looked
old, and the next, new and well cared for. I wasn’t sure of exactly what I was seeing and just for a moment I wished I had brought someone with me.
The sun seemed suddenly too hot and I sat down against the trunk of a nearby tree. When I again looked at the house, everything was, as time meant
it to be. The white paint was peeling off in large flakes and in many places rot had begun to take the walls. Weeds and small trees infested the
yard, masking any lawn there may have once been. After composing myself, I got up and walked on toward the house.
A quick survey of the backyard revealed the remains of an old swing set. The poles were rusty and the chains had long since been taken by someone.
Weeds and grass grew wildly around the base and the frame almost seemed to be growing out the ground itself. Closer inspection around the edges of
the yard showed a number of trails leading off into the woods. I thought briefly about exploring one of them but decided against it. Here and there
lay a discarded, and now worn child’s toy.
Suddenly my attention was averted by the sound of voices behind me. I was sure they were human voices but I could not make out the words. They
sounded faint and indistinct, as if coming to me from a great distance. I spun around to see nothing but a well-used baseball on the ground not more
than ten feet from me. A ball that had not been there a moment before.
I bent down to pick it up and discovered that the ball was cool to the touch even though it was lying in the hot sun. As my fingers
curled around the ball, images of a thousand games flashed through my mind. Ball games played with friends for hours, until it got too dark to see.
Sounds of yelling, laughter and feelings of friendship. Games that were played simply for the fun of it. For just a moment, it seemed as if I were
somebody else in another time. It may seem strange, but the feelings didn’t scare me at all. They weren’t foreign to me. In fact there was an
odd familiarity. The sensation passed away as quickly as it had come and I was alone in the yard again. Without even thinking I threw the ball into
the clearing behind the house and got on with my task. I glanced up at one of the second-story windows. The glass had been broken out and the window
looked with silent eyes on the trees beyond. Without a doubt, I knew that a boy had lived in this house and that I was looking at his room. I walked
around to the front of the house and stood looking at the front door for the longest time. I knew that I would go in but not what I would find.
Getting the front door open proved to be a problem. The latch was locked and the hinges were rusty from years of neglect. My trusty pocketknife
proved it’s worth in allowing me to flip the latch back and get the door unlocked. The hinges groaned in protest as the heavy wooden door swung
open. The smell of freshly cooked food greeted me as I stuck my head past the door for a closer look. I finally stepped inside and immediately felt
a pressure against my body sort of like walking against a moderate wind. The room was completely empty as if someone had removed every scrap of
furniture in an effort to rid the house of any signs of habitation. Dust coated the floor and walls in a thick layer that looked like it had lain
undisturbed for years.
edit on 1/11/11 by masqua because: title edit for contest entry