The House: An Excerpt

As I have written before, dreams turned into literary works are usually the most boring pieces of fiction a person can read. Therefore, I use my nightly wanderings to inspire my writing, not dictate it. The subjective archetypes and symbols of a private dream world must be made universal to be understood. 

So here's a little something for your amusement, an adaption of a dream escapade I had that may turn into something bigger. Maybe.

The House

by Alan Loewen

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

"This house ain't haunted," the woman said. "It's possessed!"

She stood on the front porch of my new home, and I had no idea what to say. I knew two days after I moved in that the house had something wrong with it, but I had no desire to talk to a stranger about it — especially one wearing a housecoat and smelling of age and old cigarettes.

"Uh," I managed to say. "Okay. Thanks."

She looked at me as if I had just told her the Easter Bunny wasn't real and with an incredulous shake of her head she turned and walked down my front steps. I watched her cross the road and disappear into the dilapidated house standing there. 

It took the lady five days after moving into my new home for her to introduce herself and that to give me some ominous Grade-B movie warning. It only confirmed that as an introvert, my reaching out to anybody in the neighborhood served as a good idea.

I shut the door and walked into the living room, sat back down on the couch and turned the volume back up on the television. 

I heard the footsteps start on the stairs again. They always began on the ground floor and went up to the second. After the first two days of moving in, I learned to ignore them. The stairs would be empty as they always were and I had no idea on how to make it stop. I had stood on the stairs for hours on the second day, but my invisible guest never made an appearance. I could only hear the footsteps when I occupied another room.

I also got used to waking up with every door of the house wide open as well as the muffled sounds of yelling from the basement. And no way was I going down there. I've seen too many movies. Anyway, other than the tour the real estate agent gave me, I've never been to the basement again, and since I own very little, there's nothing I need to store down there.

You have no idea of the hatred I have for basements.

You have no idea of the hatred I have for basements.

So, here I sit, shy, depressed, and wealthy enough from my online business I can even eat fast food twice a week as long as I have a coupon and can stick to the dollar menu.

I look at it this way. It leaves me alone, and I leave it alone. We can haunt the house together as far as I care.