My haunted house.

‘Does not your house dream?’ Kahlil Gibran

Houses are strange. We buy them. We think we own them. They make us feel safe and secure and sturdy and forever.

We’re wrong of course. Houses aren’t ours. Not really. My house was built in 1898. It will be standing, no doubt, long after I’m dead. It’s that kind of house. It was built to last.

When I walk down to write in the nearest decent coffee shop to my house, I often pass the home I grew up in. I put it in a book once, ‘The Reckoning’, which was  a story about the souls of buildings. I guess it’s an idea that has always fascinated me. When I go past that house (that my parents sold about fifteen years ago), I wonder at all the lost memories inside it. I remember being so afraid of the attic that I would run under the hatch to get to my sister’s bedroom. I remember the awful green carpet up the stairs. I remember when the girl who lived next door got drunk at 15 and set her bedroom on fire with a cigarette and jumped from her  window in an attempt to save herself. Fifteen seemed so grown up to me then. She died on the lawn before the ambulance got there, her small dog howling beside her. Apparently, all the skin from her back was burned away. That haunted me when I was a child. I wonder if anyone who lives there now is even aware of that story. Of course they’re not. They’ve imprinted the house with their own memories. Mine no longer exist there.

I’ve lived in my current house for eight years. It’s the longest I’ve ever lived anywhere. Last year I put my house on the market and am still trying to sell it (damn that recession). At the time, it was a practical decision – I spend a lot of time in London and it would make sense to live there. I still loved my house though. I found I’d formed an attachment to it. It was my comfort blanket. It was MINE.

It’s not of course. Recently, I’ve felt a shift. My house wants to regenerate. People don’t own houses. Houses own people and their memories. They hold lives for a while. They know secrets. But the lives pass and the people move on, and the houses wipe themselves clean and start again.

In the eight years I’ve lived in my house, lots of people have shared it with me. At first, there was the ex-boyfriend and his three children. Then, after we parted company, there were a few (cough) other men. Then my ex-father in law came to stay while he battled cancer. I remember him pointing out what a nice vibe my house had, (and it really does – My house is kind ) as he looked around each room and nook and cranny. After that there were ‘the boys’, two friends that rented rooms, and then when they moved out and bought their own place, my friend Liz and her cat Savannah moved in for a year. After they moved out, it was just me and Mr Fing, my old feline companion of forever, who moved on to the great cat playground in the sky a week or so ago.

Since Mr Fing died, things in the house have changed. I can feel a coolness in the bricks and mortar. To be fair, I haven’t always been the best house resident. I don’t do ‘stuff’. I don’t buy nick nacks. I like clear lines and spaces. When I’ve read a book it goes in the charity shop (yep, even the dedicated ones). Talking to @polarkoala at a party yesterday she commented that this was probably because I haven’t yet put down roots, and she may well be right, (and as I approach 40 I wonder if I ever will), but that aside,  if I was my house, I wouldn’t be overly pleased with me as a current inhabitant. And yet still, my house has cared for me. It’s protected me. I’ve felt safe inside it.

But like I said, since Mr Fing left, I’ve felt something shift. I think my house is restless. I think it wants new blood. It wants the vigour of change. The walls and doors and shapes of it are suddenly slightly unfamiliar to me. I feel as if my house is shuffling from foot to foot. It’s not unkind, but if it could, it would edge me towards the door. Maybe this isn’t such a bad thing. I know I need change. I just didn’t realise that my house might too.

We often wonder if our houses are haunted. Recently I’ve decided that my house probably is.

The weird thing is, I think that the ghost is me.

SP x

About sarah

Writer of supernatural and crime fiction for Gollancz in the UK. I've written six horror novels and my first thriller, A Matter of Blood, wa View all posts by sarah

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