Ethel Manor
People often say they won’t live in an old house because they fear the energy left behind. People say that spirits influence them and cause them pain. They prefer newer houses because they believe no ghosts of the dead are in newer homes. Consider how many times the earth has rotated around the sun. I can stake my life that the world has had at least one death on the entirety of its soil. An old house or a new house doesn’t make a difference.
I laughed at their suspicions and happily bought an old Victorian home. It is a beautiful building. A tall peaked roof, a romantic wrap-around porch, and wonderfully detailed trim decorate the outside of this charming house. I purchased this home below market value; it felt like the realtor handed this house to me. When moving day arrived, I excitedly removed the covers from some of the furniture — yes, a home and glamorous old furniture.
Neighbors told me that the woman who lived here was once a spy for the American government in World War II. She was well-decorated and admired by everyone she met. I understand she liked to charm men. At eighty-seven years old, she was wildly alert and full of spunk. The neighbor believes 9/11 woke up her PTSD, but she still lived happily alone in this large home. Sadly, she was found dead at the bottom of the stairs by her daughter, who routinely checked in on her.
Feeling hypocritical, I bought sage to ward off any spirits that may walk the halls of Ethel Manor; yes, this majesty has a name.
Today, while unpacking, I saw someone from the corner of my eye. I turned and, of course, there wasn’t anyone there. It has been an exhausting few days. Between moving, unpacking, lack of sleep, and work — I decided that exhaustion was playing tricks with me. I lit a sage candle, grabbed a book, and hoped I could fall asleep, but that shadowy figure lingered in my mind. That is not sitting well with me.
I began reading the book, and the figure reappeared. Only this time, it didn’t go away. The feminine figure floated nearer to me. Nervously I ask, “What do you want?” She didn’t answer.
With a stutter, I ask, “Who are you? Please tell me what you want.”
In a calm, eerie voice, she replies, “I’m Elsa.”
Then she lunged closer to my face, nose to nose; I could smell the stench of death, “This is my house.”
With my heart racing and a massive lump in my throat, with uncertain fear, I introduce myself, “Ah, nice to meet you, Elsa. I am,” I seemed to have forgotten my name and shakenly continued, “This is my home.”
Her face grew distorted with anger, “Get out!”
I sat up and pushed against the headboard. I turned to the side of the bed and let my feet touch the floor — the old woman quickly put her hands on her knees, “No, you will listen, and you will understand.” My body felt like I was in the tundra, but I did not feel the pressure of her pale boney hands.
Her sunken black eyes peered into mine, and her twisted lips shared her story, “I lived through the most dangerous trade of my youth. In this room, I held my father’s hand until his heart slowed to a stop. I lay beside my boy on this bed until he took his last breath. My house. My memories. Get out!” She faded into the shadows while her last words echoed in the emptiness.
To preoccupy myself, I went to the small study downstairs. I decided to peek under the dusty cloth covering a desk. I pulled the time-worn material from the desk. Someone had shuffled through the items on the desk and rummaged through the drawers. I look through unorganized papers, books, and desk drawers. My scavenger hunt began to distract me from the insanity I was feeling.
I felt a small button; naturally, I had to push it. I heard a click in the drawer to my right. Puzzled, I opened the drawer and found a hidden bottom. That compartment hid the Last Will of Elsa Grey, “Get out of there! Nothing for you. Nothing.” She swished through me, trying to grab the papers from my hands, but she could not grasp them — her hand went through them like wind through the still air.
She took a moment. She looked down at her hands with much confusion and loss. Suddenly she let out a horrifying screech. I had to cover my ears. She faded like a blown-out candle.
I looked over a handwritten will. Elsa had left everything to her granddaughter, but this document never crossed a lawyer’s desk or saw the light of day since it was hidden in the drawer.
I continued reading the paperwork I found. It stated that everything was left to Elsa’s granddaughter, including a small house on the far end of the property. As often as I walked the six acres, I never saw a second house.
I gathered the papers to bring to the local county record office. Elsa appeared at the far end of the hall, “No,” She wailed through the wall. I could hear her sobs from beyond the plaster until there was silence.
At the record office, I discovered that Elsa had one daughter and a granddaughter. The granddaughter, Lily, died in a house fire on this property. Her mother was Lilith Grey. The information the clerk provided said that the fire was accidental. The clerk leaned in toward me, “Rumor has it that her daughter, Lilith set the fire. By the looks of this paperwork and will, Lilith was left with nothing. This points in a different direction than accidental fire. That fire had been deliberate — arson and murder.” Now I know why Elsa didn’t want me snooping into the family history. Unnatural curiosity helped me decide to invite Ms. Lilith to Dinner.
I found a phone number amongst the many scattered papers in the study with an L just after it. I dialed the number — to my surprise, a sinister raspy voice answered, “Hello.” My goosebumps had goosebumps. I wanted to hang up. I don’t want this woman in my home. Yet, I wanted answers.
“Hi, my name is Marsha, and I recently bought your mother’s home. I thought it would be interesting to get to know her,” I didn’t mention Lily, “and you.”
She laughed with a cocky snicker, “I know exactly who you are.”
Ignoring her remark, I reluctantly invited her to Dinner tomorrow evening, “I’ll be there. Don’t expect me to bring wine. This isn’t a celebration.” Whatever her crazy is — it is profound. Am I doing the right thing?
The doorbell rang. A disembodied scream emulated throughout the house.
She didn’t say hello, kiss my ass, or anything; she pushed past me, “I see you still have the old bat’s shit here.”
“I think this furniture is beautiful, and it has secrets,” hoping that would trigger her to talk.
“Secrets? Like a 20-year-old sofa will tell you the history of this pile of useless sticks.” She headed up the stairs and ran her hand across the small closet at the top of the stairs.
She turned and looked down at me, “I know you were at the record office. Snooping into places your nose doesn’t belong.”
I cleared my throat, “Dinner is getting cold. I am going to reheat it while you reminisce.”
She rolled her eyes. Under her breath, she muttered as she took the first step down. I wish I had known what she said before she was shoved down the stairs. Elsa’s voice screeched, “You killed her!”
I stood frozen in utter indescribable shock as the woman’s body tumbled down the stairs.
My dinner guest lay at the bottom of the stairs with blood oozing from her head; she motioned for me to come closer, “I am Lily. I killed Nana and Mother.” She gave a weak yet maniacal laugh.
The police found a lighter and a note in Lily’s pocket.
“Whoever reads this, I am finally free of the nightmares within walls. I confess to killing my mother; she said she hated me from the day she felt me move in her womb. I listened to Mother’s pleading screams as she burned.
After I killed mommy-dearest, my grandmother took me in; I was her war prisoner, locking me in the closet at the top of the stairs. Nana would make me pose for “happy” family pictures and threaten to kill me if I spoke ill of her or my mother. One day, I saw an opportunity. Nana did not lock the door — I shoved that wicked woman down the stairs.
You can’t arrest me now; I will never be a prisoner again.
In death, there is peace.
Lily”
I handed the police officer the will I had found in the mysterious desk drawer. Lily never knew that her grandmother had left her everything — money, property, and this “pile of useless sticks.” Whether Lily’s stories were true, the will was never presented to her.
Elsa appeared for the last time, “They finally know the sins of my granddaughter. I am at peace.” She vanished, leaving a cool gentle breeze. A soft echo, “Thank you.”
It was a quiet evening when I decided to destroy all the papers on the desk. One form stood out. The Saint James Psychiatric Center letterhead was stained with sadness. It explained that Lily Grey was diagnosed with Schizophrenia. It continued to describe the symptoms and the outcome of Lily’s stay, “Schizophrenia is a serious brain illness. People who tragically suffer from Schizophrenia will hear distorted and disruptive voices. They believe other people are hurting them or slowly killing them. Their tales of dangerous encounters rarely make sense or have validity. Due to the severity of Lily’s disability, it was advised that Lily remain hospitalized. Against high recommendation, Lily’s grandmother, Elsa Grey, has taken Lily into her home.”
All my questions were answered. Even questions I didn’t know I had. I will move on with my life — just not in this house. Not with these memories. I placed the papers from the desk into the fireplace; I watched Elsa and Lily’s history be destroyed. Their secrets are safe with me.
I covered all of the furniture and left the keys on the stand with sage for future owners of Ethel Manor. Not looking back, I closed the door.
THE END
