Ghosts

1

         Here is a story about a house. Sounds like a dull topic, but be assured the two-story dwelling featured in this account is not an ordinary run-of-the-mill house.

         A very interesting wooden structure this and, I hastily add, a most unusual one. To the extreme that hordes of investigators, many hailing from Duke University where studies of the paranormal is a specialty, have beaten well-worn paths to it’s creaking doors, both front and rear.

         Let’s give this story added impetus right here at the very beginning. This can be accomplished rather easily by letting the reader know the residence referred to herein is not a prop on a Hollywood movie location. You won’t find this manor in the Transylvania district of Eastern Europe  where werewolves run rampant.

         No sir friend, this derelict frame- house where shenanigans are a nightly occurrence is located right here in the heart of a pulsating and vibrant Narrows, Virginia.

         I’m gonna’ level with the reader , this in keeping with my time-honored policy of sincerity and absolute truthfulness.

         Though this story deals with “the unusual”, there is nothing irregular about the manner in which these facts were amassed for the compilation of this work.

         You see, the house being discussed is the house where I have resided these past 10 years. So then I know of what I speak and write.

         It’s very likely I know more than anyone else about not only this house, but indeed a great number of other dwelling places in Narrows where strange events are the norm. My claim should not be construed as an ugly display of immodesty. Quite the contrary, that claim is made because of a shameful and sad state of affairs. Allow a few paragraphs to explain.

         Having spent more than 6 decades wallowing in the cesspools of demeaning poverty, I’ve never realized that most cherished American dream, owning a home. Nor have I ever held a deed for tepee, wigwam or igloo. Such properties have always eluded me, remaining tantalizingly just out of reach.

         The reader should have reached two conclusions by now, really obvious ones. I mean, any old idiot oughta’ have ‘em figured.

         Firstly, using the standard American yardstick as a gauge (owning a home ), I’ve been a complete failure…a dud, total and dismally.

         Secondly, I’ve been doing a whole lotta’ renting. Those nomadic tribes roaming the Sahara Desert don’t pack up and move any more often than I do.

         As a result I’ve been involved in some really weird situations. Some real hairy stuff…

2

         To date and at last count, I’ve lived in 47 different houses in Narrows, Pearisburg and surrounding areas. A soaring number, but even so most probably a conservative one. No doubt I’ve forgotten a few.

         The chief reason for this story is to pass along bits of information to folks of my own standing, financially speaking. To wit, ye paupers who can’t afford to own yer home! In other words, destitute nomads…renters!

         A word or two for home-owners . You’ll be well advised to skip this story. Don’t waste yer valuable time. Flip to the society pages, or the obits, or classifieds. There you can learn who just got hitched, gasped their last breath and left saddened relatives, and who is trying to pawn 7 truckloads of junk off onto a gullible public by having a yardsale. To repeat, nothing in here to interest home-owners.

         So then all ye renters, sit up and give your undivided attention to the paragraphs herein. There are advantages to be enjoyed by living in rented houses. No taxes, no home-ownership insurance ( an absolute must to guard against frivolous lawsuits ), no maintenance costs.

         Suppose the roof springs a leak. As a renter ya’ simply walk to the phone, dial yer landlord’s number and say: “You’re gonna’ hafta’ git a crew down here. Tell ‘em to bring ladders, 70 sheets of tin and 45 gallons of roofing tar.”

         The most frequent trouble fer property owners, however, is when tenants call with: “This blankety-blank commode ain’t workin! Git a plumber over here pronto!”

         On the other hand, renters are faced with some real big disadvantages. It seems property owners are a breed of many whims, fickle of mind, prone to “flights of fancy.”

         For instance, owner approaches renter with a dire message. Using not one iota of tact or diplomacy, he addresses the poor wretched renter: “My son is returning to this area. You’ll hafta’ git out in 30 days.”

         Or ya’ see a real-estate agent plantin’ one of them cussed FOR SALE signs on the front lawn. At such times ya’ address your few meager belongings with these words: “Well junk, looks like we’ll be movin’ on again.”

         Renters face a very uncertain future, never knowing if the sad news will come tomorrow, or the day following. Loading and unloading pianos, sofas, ice-boxes, etc. is laborious and back-breaking work. Water-beds filled with 4,000 gallons of water are extremely difficult to git in and out of doors.          Mayflower, United Van Lines and Atlas Movers have somehow learned of my vast experience. They’ve been hounding me for years and have made several good offers. Seems they need my expertise as “Dish Packin’ Instructor.”

         Surely by now most folks will agree that I’m well qualified to give out some facts concerning the “hainted” houses of Narz ( the correct pronunciation, at least for this story, has it rhyming with “painted” ).

         All would-be renters can place the utmost of trust in these written words, and it’s very important they be given careful consideration. For you see, these pages are really intended as an alert, a warning!

         Generally speaking, most houses in Narrows are normal and serene, abodes where one can find contentment and peace of mind…”safe-houses.”

         But listen here pal, all of ‘em ain’t. Not all of ‘em!…

3

         Questions fly fast and furious when entering into negotiations for renting a house. Two parties, owner and would-be tenant, are involved in these tense proceedings.

         Firstly, an owner with a cockroach infested shack producing no income.

         And then ya’ have a peon with no roof over his head. Both are bursting with inquiries.

         The owner opens these important  negotiations in the following manner: “How many brats ya’ got?” Followed by a wide-range of other stuff: “Guess you’ll be bringing in a pack of  mangy dogs to destroy my flower-beds and irrigate my shrubbery.”

         These interrogations can last for hours, and I’ve learned “patience” is the keyword. I mean, the fella’ is desiring to know who’s wantin’ to move into his house!

         A renter has some questions too, and they beg, literally cry out for answers. Else, soon after movin’ in he could find himself facing more troubles than he ever imagined was possible.

         After the blabbermouth owner raves on for what seems an eternity, an opening finally presents itself. Do not hesitate, seize the moment with all due haste. Now the would-be tenant can ask some probing questions of his prospective landlord.

         Remember,  your selection of queries is all-important. Never mind asking about wall-to-wall carpeting, central air and how many bathrooms. Trivial matters…don’t waste valuable time with such nonsense. Git right to the pertinent stuff.

         Here, presented in great detail, is the step-by-step procedure I use: “Tell me sir, when was the house built?”

         It’s vital to know this, for it allows one to surmise just WHAT the ravages of time might have allowed to congregate within those walls.

         Continue with your probing: “Have previous tenants reported any unusual phenomena, anything out-of-the ordinary about these premises?” One fella,’ being surprisingly honest, admitted that several former occupants had bitterly complained: “This cussed house is hard to heat. After utility bills and your rent, me and my family are forced to exist on stale bread and grape jelly!”

         Be persistent with your questioning, leave no stone unturned: “Has any person, or persons, expired from this earth while residing within these walls?”

         Most owners will say no, but every now and then a real stupid one will answer in the affirmative: “An elderly lady gasped her final breath in here just 3 weeks ago.”

         Waste no further time. Scram on outta’ there and look elsewhere for a domicile to hang yer hat!

         Don’t forget this one: “Do you know if this structure was ever used  as  a funeral parlor?”

         A critical inquiry, because many aged structures nearing the century mark in longevity served that very purpose. If the owner by chance says yes, say to the gent in a tasteful manner: “See ya’ later, gator!”

         Honest replies to these questions should allow one to determine if a particular dwelling-place is a “safe-house”…a haven where he can retire for the night and dream sweet reveries.

         Or if it might be SOMETHING quite different. A place where nightmares pervade, and eeriness prevails…

4

         Many folks are  boastful about their achievements in life, rave about ‘em like a flock of White Leghorn roosters crowin’ two hours before sunrise. Such is okay I suppose, for it’s normal human behavior  in this day and age in which we live…”hooray fer me and you go to H…!”

         But this person can’t do any braggin,’ for a very simple reason. Good Lord man, my collective years have been what is commonly referred to as a “comedy of errors.” A long continuing series of bungling, bobbles and boners…fumbles, falls and foulballs.

         I ain’t never did anything right, and if’n that ever happens…well, I’ll slip into a coma so deep that 4 teams of doctors, workin’ around the clock with ammonia and smellin’salts, will need at least 6 months to revive me. Please note, if you will, a complete lack of self-confidence.

         This is not a “crying jag,” nor the thoughts of a despondent person feelin’ sorry for himself. I’m merely tellin’it straight, that it’s very easy for a human to become sidetracked, to spend an entire lifetime stumbling down one-way streets which lead only to stonewalls, brickwalls, uncrossable moats, raging rivers, booby traps and a thousand other deadends. I’ve heard of that widely ballyhooed “bed of roses,” but neighbor I ain’t never beenin that garden!

         Think not the above few paragraphs don’t tie-in with “the houses of Narz” theme we’ve been pursuing. Indeed they are relevant. This information is used here to illustrate my sorry record of goofs, and how it ballooned greatly when I moved a pitifully few belongings into a certain house 10 years ago.

         In this particular instance I wasn’t totally unaware of certain facts. Really only two reasons might explain why I moved into this wretched structure. Firstly, maybe I felt one of them there “compelling urges.” Secondly and far more likely, it was probably the only rental property available at the time.

         Whichever, after considering what later happened, I should have headed for the nearest army surplus store, purchased myself a squad tent, then claimed “squatters rights” somewhere down yonder along the banks of New River. Better that than living in this accursed house.

         A little side-note here for just a moment. Rivers are actually a good place to live, and fairly safe. One can, if given ample warning floodwaters are on the way, “strike a tent” and head fer higher ground. One can’t do that with a house. He can only drag his TV set outta’ there, then beat a hasty retreat and watch the rest of his junk go floatin’ down the river. Tents…this mode of living allows ya’ so many more options.

         Yessir, for 62 years I’ve traveled the infamous “avenue of mistakes.” The biggest snafu of all was when I unloaded my meager furnishings and carried them across the threshold of this house where I now reside.

         Something watched from inside…and waited .And immediately began making plans…spooky plans…

5

          A widely-used practice in our modern hi-tech society is a cute little thing called “buck passing.” Everybody and his brother are deep into this one, and all their cousins are doin’ it too. Here’s what ya’ get when all is rolling along smoothly: “That was my idea. Great one, eh?”

         Let something go haywire and it’s a cat of a different color. The culprit responsible gives ya’ a load of this: “My mother and daughter of 6 months should have known better!”

         Most puzzling, for it means no one is at fault for the screwed-up situation planet Earth finds itself facing. This here bad stuff just happens along all by it’s lonesome. The enlightened age, when thousands are proclaiming: “The devil made me do it!”

         Let’s carry this thing one step further; no person alive today has ever made a mistake, and certainly won’t commit a boo-boo in the future. Shucks pal, tomorrow morn we’ll wake up in Utopia, that fabled land of milk and honey.

         “Buck passing,” a term which allows every man, woman and child to be perfect specimens. But who can really say? Perhaps one day, several centuries from now, a human will come clean by saying: “It’s my fault.”

         Well pilgrim, that’ll be the day I’ll keel over and quiver like a bunny that’s just been shot-gunned at point-blank range.

         I’ll go against the norm here by telling how I became ensnarled in a mess 10 years ago that was nobody’s fault but mine. My stupidity resulted in .harrowing nights of fear and anxiety when I moved into a “house that lives.” Because this fiasco was of my own making, be it hereby resolved I’m takin’ the rap and accepting full resposibility.

         The house we’re discussing is in close proximity to where I was born and reared. Which means I’d had some 50 years to accumulate mountains of information about this edifice. It’s my firm belief that any and all persons oughta’ know their neighborhoods after residing there 5 decades!

         The history of said house was known to me, very much so. For example, she was nailed together in 1884, just 19 years after Lee surrendered to Grant at Appomatox. It’s always been  common knowledge throughout the neighborhood that no one had ever lived there but the original owner who built it, his spouse and immediate family. This closely-knit family consisted of  two daughters and a son, none of whom ever married, choosing instead to remain old maids and a bachelor until the day their earthly chores ended and they departed for another place.

The patriarch of the clan, along with his wife, were very old when I was a mere lad. That old man and his life-long mate died when the Great Depression was in full swing, but I remember them very well. The last of the three offspring passed from this life 12 years ago.

         Now folks, right here I need some help. I’d like an expert to step forward and explain something to me , preferably in simple terms this dummy can understand.

         How come, beginning in 1977 and continuing even unto this day, these people, deceased for many years, are paying visits to their former home on a regular schedule? 

         Please come forward and explain…

6

         It was 12 years ago when the last member of the family ( the son) gasped his final breath and departed from this weary earthly scene. A reclusive hermit, the chap went to join his kinfolk, all of whom had made that same terminal journey many moons before.

         The estate then became the property of a distant relative, a fellow who had been a favorite of the old man who’d built the house in a previous century ( and resided there for 50 years, then in the mid-1930’s at the advanced age of 95, gave up his earthly labors and departed for a different setting ).

         This relative was the man I’d grilled intensely about certain aspects of his newly-gained manor. Looking back now, I realize he had no way of knowing about certain “activities” that occur within these walls. The man wasn’t aware he’d inherited a house with “five accessories,” and I’m not talkin’ about hot and cold running water, nor furnished kitchen appiances!

         We finalized our business talks, I paid him a month’s rent and moved my junk in ( a word here and now about those “business talks.” That phrase was used solely for “purposes of dramatization.” Really now, let’s be realistic. Never, not even once during our miserable lives, do we poor folks have any “business to attend to.” We poor folks spend entire lifetimes “makin’ arrangements” ).

         At first the old house seemed normal enough…big and rambling, only a mite creaky, and colder than the summit of Mt. Hood in the winter. It features a most interesting kitchen. Cabinets and woodwork are original, the type furnishings used in 1884. The nineteenth décor was much to my liking, tickled me pink. This house, so I thought when first moving in , had a “lived in” feeling; wouldn’t hafta’ be particular here. Just wipe a tad of mud off’n yer brogues and mosey on in.

         Many people are leery of buildings that have been around 108 years, and I’m one of ‘em. Such structures have seen much, heard much, and have become a personality all their own. Aged houses hold many secrets, and periodically turns them loose in the forms of ghosts, spooks, spirits and other “haints” of a varied and sundry assortment.

         Everything was fine and dandy the first two months in my new residence…calm, uneventful. I was gloating over my trouble-free “housewarming” when it happened, the first of a 10 year series of anomalies which the scientific world says just can’t happen.