There’s not much to say about what life was like when I was 12, or where we lived. Our house was next door to a non-denominational church, a half mile away from Wichita State University, just a few blocks away from a new fast food joint called Church’s Fried Chicken, and haunted by the ghost of a murdered wife. Now, that last part is a complete lie, but when I was 12 my life was pretty boring, so I might as well entertain you with something made-up.
Our house was built in 1901, and occupied by one Phineas Densmore and his wife, Felocity. A couple things to note: Phineas is one of those names one only sees nowadays in Steampunk novels, although Mr. Densmore himself (no relation to the Seattle city councilman of 1882) was about as sci-fi as the long-grass growing in the fields next to his new home. And yes, “Felocity” looks like a misspelling of “Felicity.” That’s because it is. On her birth certificate, anyway, and her death note, although most folks just called her “Fel.”
It’s seems that Phineas, a bank clerk, was having an affair, and was racked with guilt. And, like many men staggering under the weight of crushing anxiety, he projected his guilt onto others. He convinced himself that his wife, too, was having an affair. And so when his own lover took a risk and sent a letter to his home, addressed to “Msr. Densmore,” he took one look at the envelope and decided “Msr.” stood for “Mistress.” He dashed his poor wife’s head in with a rock. Then he ran for the local constable, letter in hand as proof of the justice of his dastardly deed.
When they opened the letter, they found that “Msr.” stood for “Monsieur,” as his lover felt that their affair was so “European” as deserved a more sophisticated form of address. Proof, yes, but proof of motive, and Phineas was hung by his neck. Until dead. Which is how the execution order was spelled out, in those days.
Fast forward several years to 1984, and watch the rest of Wichita creep up the hill, building more and more houses until the big yellow house is surrounded by others homes and, as I said, the university, the church, and the chicken shack. And finally, a family of four moves in. One of them me.
In those days I was obsessed with books about poltergeists (this part is true). In the summer I would ride my bike to one of three libraries within ten miles of our house, and head right to the 133.1 section. Grab as many book as I could. Load up my backpack and take them home, and read all day. And all night, until I was exhausted.
Now, my bed frame and my brother’s were old antiques, built by my mom’s grandfather. Our mattresses, however, were more recently acquired, used beds from an old nun-run hospital Perfectly sturdy, but too long for the old frames. My dad’s dad, a cabinet maker, was taking the summer to rebuild them.
So here’s the scene: me on my mattress on the floor. The window open to let in a modicum of breeze. A tall stack of books, sitting on the edge of an old easy chair, the chair itself on four splayed legs and a fat, crusty rusty spring. All is quiet, still, calm, dark. Until:
Creeeeak.
My eyes pop open. The room is bathed in yellowish gray, from a streetlight penetrating gauzy curtains.
Creeeeeeak. Thump.
I sit up. That overstuffed chair looks like it’s shaking just a bit. There’s a book on the floor in front of it.
Creeeeak. The chair leans forward a bit. Sshshsss as a book slides forward and THUMP! Lands on top of a book on the floor. I leap up like a shot and my legs start kicking. I’m wrapped up in bed sheets and cold sweat.
Creeeak sshh thump! Creeakshshsshthump! Shshssthump! Shshssthump! Thump! Thump! The books are flying off the chair. I’m out of breath. I’m thrashing my arms and legs. I’m finally free of the sheets, bouncing off the door frame, falling into the hallway, shooting forward and slamming into the door of my parent’s bedroom. I open it with slick hands, fall down, drag myself to the foot of their bed, and curl up, fist rammed into my mouth stop keep from screaming.
And that’s all I remember. Get this—when I woke up, I was back in my bed! And the books were stacked up on the chair again. Did I dream it all? Did my dad carry me back before he went to work? In later years, I would decide it must have been a breeze, and the weight of the books was just enough that they tipped the chair forward. I mean, after all, there’s no such thing as ghosts.
But eventually I turned thirteen, and stopped reading books about poltergeists. When I was 17, we moved out of the house. I don’t know who lives there now these 26 years later. I just hope they don’t have any affairs, murder anyone, or get that house really haunted for whomever lives there next.
