haunted houses

I read 'The Diary of Ellen Rimbauer: My Life at Rose Red.' Fond as I am of the horror genre ever since I read Stephen King's 'Firestarter' when I was thirteen, this one gave me the creeps. (Well, a little.) Perhaps it's the understanding that this one is not a work of fiction. With stories like 'The Tommyknockers' or 'Carrie,' you know somehow that some horribly twisted and magnificently imaginative mind created them. When it's a diary, an element of delicious horror is added.

I do not discount the existence of haunted houses. I respect those who believe in the supernatural and have experienced unexplainable things. I used to live in a house that, although may not be classified as haunted, was a little bit strange. One would glimpse movement in the mirrors or see reflections of things that are not in the room. Or one would hear chairs being dragged at night, someone sweeping the upstairs floor with a hard broom, or knocking on doors when nobody is there.

But because I grew up with all those things, I thought all houses were like that. As children, we never asked what those things were. The adults brushed us away, saying it was our imagination. We got used to it. We only grew closer together, all staying in one place. We did not sleep in the rooms, but in the hallway, beside each other. We washed plates together, studied in the living room together, climbed the stairs at night together.

Now perhaps I should ask. Perhaps old houses have ugly histories, and perhaps they have memories. Perhaps they have a 'presence.' If those things are not for us to understand, at least we could accept, as long as we are not harmed.