I knew how I looked. I’d locked myself in a gas station bathroom to pull my gray hair into a bun and put on the faded dress and scuffed loafers I’d taken from bags left outside a Goodwill. The dress was too big and the shoes too small, but if they were meant to help the needy, mission accomplished. I looked in the mirror over the sink and saw a mean old woman. She looked like she would punch someone.
The agency was in a strip mall. I could predict exactly what the interviewer would be like: twenty-four to twenty-eight years old, sleek-haired, female. All interviewers these days are young women. They size me up quickly, noting my worn-out clothes and oily hair. They spend a few polite moments on me as we both pretend I have a shot in hell at being hired. Have a seat. You know, most of our employees are in high school, but, ummm... older people are reliable. So, no current address?, they ask.
No, I say, I’m staying with friends while I look for a place.
What I don’t do is yell: The rent on my apartment nearly doubled! And that’s after our bank accounts and retirement funds were drained trying to keep my husband alive. Didn’t work! In a single year I went from being a homeowner, to a renter, and now I live in my car. Get many sixty-four year olds clawing for survival? No? I’m a goddamn unicorn!
Ms. Patterson turned out to be a surprise. Her frizzy hair was three colors, but that didn’t hold a candle to all the metal piercings scattered around her face like embedded buckshot. She barely glanced at me, instead reading over the resume I’d created at the public library.
You’ve house sat before, she said with little interest. I’d actually stayed at my sister’s once while she was at a conference twenty years ago, but on my resume it was last month. Andrea had been gone for many years now.
Yes, I have some experience.
Your previous employment is mostly office work. Why change?
It’s harder now to look at a screen all day. I didn’t mention how often I’d been confronted over the liquor on my breath. Zero tolerance is bullshit. Let people grieve.
Now she raised her head to look me over. Can I ask, are you homeless?
Temporarily. It’s actually been five months so far.
She asked me if I had family. I told her I was widowed, no children. She picked up her phone and texted furiously for several minutes, her phone pinging with each response she received. When she stopped, she wrote down an address, telling me to go meet the homeowner, Rachel.
She needs someone immediately. It’s a week long job that pays three hundred dollars, minus our fee.
I put the address into my phone navigator and drove to the old section, the very beginnings of the city. The homes were grand dames from the last century, but now most were sectioned off into apartments and have a rundown look. I made it there with my gas light on the whole way. 579 Paul Road was still a whole house, enormous by today’s standards. It looked cared for. The lawn was cut and roses bloomed, and the house was painted dove gray. There were lace curtains in the windows. The Victorian look was a bit on the nose, but it was striking. I pulled along the curb and sat there thinking for a moment. This could go two ways. She could look at me in my wrinkled dress and tight shoes and tell me no thanks. Or she could see a tall, dour old lady and think I’d be a perfect fit for her old house. She’s desperate for someone, I told myself. You’re a someone.
A woman with long black hair and Ferragamo boots was sitting on the porch steps but sprung up when I began walking up the drive. She smiled with relief when I agreed that Ms. Patterson had sent me. She spoke quickly.
She told you it’s for a week, right? I just need you to let the workers in, the water heater is broken and some pipes need to be replaced. Sorry. Pick any bedroom you’d like. I’ve left new bedding for you. There’s a small television in one room, sorry, that’s the only one. No cable, the last renters have been gone awhile, sorry, but it gets local channels. Cell service can be iffy, especially when it rains or it’s windy, and boy, it gets windy around here, like a tornado some nights. Sorry. The grocery store is just down Water Street, you could walk there. Any questions?
She had walked to her Mercedes as she spoke and was holding the door open.
Are we going in? I asked.
Uh, no. Just use your best judgment, she said, shoving a set of keys in my hand.
I had less than two dollars to my name, so I didn’t have much choice but to grovel. I, uh, need to have some of the payment now. To buy groceries.
Rachel had pressed the fob that brought the purring engine to life as she ducked into the front seat. She sat there in luxury and gave me a look of pity that made me want to scream. You could be here someday, life has no guarantees!, I yelled in my head. She dug into her designer purse and handed me a hundred dollar bill, then slammed the door, backed the car past me and drove away. We hadn’t exchanged phone numbers. She hadn’t asked me not to turn the place into a drug den. She hadn’t told me when she’d pay me the rest.
I grabbed my totes from the car and let myself in the house. It was colder inside than outside, and drafty. The first thing I saw was a package of new sheets and a blanket tossed on the floor just inside the door. Then I looked around. The house had been destroyed. Torn wallpaper, deep nicks in the wood floors. There was a big burn patch on the ceiling. Squatters had found the place.
Entering put me in a vast front room that I imagine would have had seating for guests to wait while their calling card was brought to the lady of the house. La-di-da. Now I’m the lady of the house, so how do you like me, Mrs. Rockefeller?
A door to the left led through room after room, a dining room with a claw-footed table, a hallway lined with windows which led to the kitchen. It was small but had a modern stove and refrigerator that looked out of place. I opened the fridge and cabinets hoping I wouldn’t have to spend my precious money. There was a bottle of mustard, a few plates, coffee mugs, a single set of eating utensils, a saucepan and a cooking spoon. I grabbed my purse and headed out to the store.
Shopping on a tight budget is exhausting. Luckily, I’m not a picky drinker. I grabbed the vodka that was on sale. I also bought bread, peanut butter, instant coffee and a quart of milk.
Entering the house this time, I saw that my tote bags had toppled off the sideboard. My things had spilled out in the fall. Practically everything, actually. I went to the kitchen and made a sandwich and a mug of vodka, standing while I ate and reading the news on my phone. Calling to find work and keeping up on the news are the only reasons I have a phone. No one I actually know calls me. I don’t play games or go on social media. Not worth the battery life.
Wrapped up in how I would spend this week, a whole week with somewhere to be, I jumped when I felt a hand on my calf, the distinct pressure of five fingertips pressing into my leg. I dropped my sandwich and swatted at myself furiously but there was nothing on me, so I stopped and felt stupid. I rubbed my calf where I had absolutely felt a gripping pressure. Growing old is tiresome. Aching joints and muscle cramps are the least of it. I took the vodka with me.
It was October, dark out. I had yet to look at the bedrooms. Pick any bedroom you like, she’d said, like it was a castle. I stuck the vodka in a tote along with the packages of sheets and the blanket, then went upstairs, opening room after room. Three floors, five bedrooms, three bathrooms, servant quarters in the attic, a nursery, a sitting room and a library. Empty of books but there was the minuscule tv, unplugged and stuck on a shelf, and an easy chair that had been torn down to the wood frame in places. The master suite was on the second floor and was the biggest room with the largest bed. It had a private bathroom. The mattress looked decent and I opened the sheets and made the bed, spreading the rough blanket on top when I was done. The bed had a canopy attached, heavy curtained panels that encased the bed like royalty. I hoped they kept the noise out. I hadn’t slept in a bed in a long time and I planned on sleeping as much as possible this week.
I took a freezing cold shower using the tiny bar of hotel hand soap from the sink. This enormous bathroom must have cost thousands of dollars to build a hundred and twenty years ago, with the marble tiles and swan shaped faucets, but the person protecting all of it got a twenty-five cent sliver of soap. I had Rachel figured out.
In the bedroom, I closed the door. I thought I’d closed it when I came in, but now I closed and locked it. The wood floors were warped. I put on my nightgown, a long blue one that I’d bought years ago when Brian and I had gone to Scotland. He’d pushed me to spend the money on myself as a reminder of our vacation. I actually try not to remember. I took Brian’s little folding knife out of a tote and opened it, slipped it under the pillow, then pulled the drapes closed and climbed into bed. A real bed. It had been a very long time since I’d been able to stretch out my legs as I slept. I took a few slugs of vodka and turned out the light.
I fell asleep almost instantly and dreamed of the past, of playing clarinet in the marching band. I felt my fingers tapping up and down and heard a saxophone next to me. Diane Tiller, sixteen and dressed in our band uniform, which I was suddenly wearing too. We were practicing on the football field, and I heard the drum and looked, and yes, there was Robbie, my boyfriend. He smiled at me and my heart thumped to see his braces, and then Robbie’s drum sounded hollow and strange and why was I floating away from them? I couldn’t catch the melody anymore, just thump thump thump thump, but it wasn’t my heart anymore, it was a horrible noise that was shaking my head. I woke and sat up.
Robbie’s drum had become a banging on the wooden pillars at the foot of the bed. First the left, then the right, thumping that became faster and faster as they were then beaten in unison. I curled myself in terror against the headboard. My hand found the knife under the pillow. Even in the pitch black room I could see the drapes swinging from the beating of the pillars. It was becoming more violent, as if whoever was there wanted to beat the bed apart. I knew I had locked the doors, both the bedroom and the front door. That meant that someone was already inside when I locked up.
“Get out! Get out, you bastard!” I flung myself up and at the drapes, pulling them open as I stood on the bed. I drew my foot back to kick someone in the face, but no one was there. The banging stopped. I yanked the drapes, twisting them to see all around the bed. I grabbed my phone, flipping on the flashlight app before climbing down. I scanned around the room.
“I will jam your eyes to the back of your skull!”
The light switch was near the door, but the room was so big that reaching the switch seemed like crossing a river.
I strobed my phone under the chairs and dresser. Nothing. That left the bathroom. I yelled “I’ll kill you!” as I kicked the door into the wall. It was empty.
Someone had to be here, I just hadn’t found them yet. Probably a guy who wanted to scare me out of his squat but not looking to fight someone as mean as me.
“I’m supposed to be here and you’re not!,” I roared. “You get the hell out of this house!” I waved the knife around.
I’d never been in a fist fight, aside from decking my sister fifty years ago, but I’d had it with discovering all the things I had to be afraid of now. Time to make someone fear me.
I flicked the bedroom light on and pounded my fist on the wall twice to make my point, then stood there waiting. I knew he was under the bed, that soon I would see a face appear from the darkness and I would have to fight. I gripped my knife and focused all my attention on the foot of the bed, tensed, waiting, waiting...Whump! Whump! I gasped in fright when someone responded with two hard thumps to the wall behind me. The hits could only have come from the hallway on the other side of the wall. I reminded myself that I was in charge here even though I no longer wanted to be, but I forced myself to fling the bedroom door open and jump into the hallway with my raised knife. Nobody.
But I felt it on my right leg, like a snake was wrapping itself around me, squeezing, and I slashed wildly at the air. My screams were answered by a shower of dust coming down on me from the ceiling. And then the laughing started.
I stopped screaming and stood there, listening to the gurgling, high-pitched laughter of children. There were multiple voices, some sounding like they came from the third floor, some from the bedroom I’d come out of, and one giggle so close to my ear that it ruffled my hair.
If I didn’t move I would pass out from terror. I had my phone in one hand and my knife in the other as I sprinted down the hall and descended the grand staircase, but when I hit the ground floor, I skidded to a stop.
Blocking the front door was a line of filthy dolls and stuffed animals, at least sixty of them, all the way across the threshold. They were Victorian, Edwardian, with painted porcelain faces and real fur that had been rubbed off in patches. I saw a plastic clown doll from the sixties and tiny superhero figures that had been popular just a few years ago. I froze to the spot at the foot of the staircase. It wasn’t until a fat, crying faced baby doll pitched itself forward onto its curled knuckles and began dragging itself in my direction that I grabbed a tote bag of my things lying on the sideboard and swung them at the toys, sending them flying. I frantically twisted the locks on the front door and kept yanking until it finally swung open, allowing me to run to my car at the curb. My car keys were in the bag, and after unlocking it, I flung myself in and slammed the door behind me. My heart raced and my hands trembled as I pulled up my recent calls and found the agency’s number. I got the recording, of course. I looked at the time. Three-ten in the morning. I sat in my car, shaking and looking at the house. I called the agency again and left a message.
I didn’t have enough gas to get more than a mile or two. The street was empty and silent. No one had heard my screams. I sat there, waiting until morning.
Ms. Patterson called me just after nine. “You knew what you were sending me into,” I said.
“You wanted the job,” she answered. I could hear the shrug in her voice.
“Do you know what’s going on in there, that there are-”
She talked over me. “The agency follows the law to the letter. We have attorneys on retainer, so if you’re implying that I’ve done anything illegal, I invite you to retain a good lawyer yourself. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Give me Rachel’s number,” I demanded. “She left without giving it to me.”
Ms. Patterson reeled off the number and disconnected.
I called Rachel. And called and called. It was only after I texted Pick up the phone, damn you!, that she called me.
“I already know,” she said as soon as I answered. “How long did you last?”
“I’m still here”, I told her. “Get over here now.”
I disconnected and leaned back in the destroyed easy chair to wait.
Rachel pulled up in her Mercedes thirty minutes later. I had forced myself to go up to the bedroom and get my things, to go through the multiple rooms to get my food from the kitchen. I had all my totes sitting on the front porch, and I had taken the blanket and the mustard too, because they might be the only payment I was getting.
She got out of her car slowly, as if she expected me to hurl rocks at her. She deserved it, but instead, I said, “There’s a reason you want people in this house. Why?”
She hung her head. “We’ve tried to sell it. The...well, THEY won’t let contractors do anything. My parents had a cleanser in, years ago, one of those hippies that bless places. He ran out screaming. The best I can do is make sure squatters don’t take over, that would kill any chances of selling, and we need to sell it. It’s been passed down for three generations because we can’t unload it but I’m at the end of my rope. You have no idea what a financial burden this house has been to my family.”
I made a point of looking at her Gucci bag, then at her car.
“Yes,” I said.
“You got a hundred bucks for one night. Are we square?”
“No,” I told her. “I have a proposition. I’m willing to stay.”
“What?,” she said in amazement. “Uh... for how long?”
“As long as I’m needed. For the right price. A thousand dollars a month. But you have to tell the agency that you’ve given up on house sitters. I don’t want you to pay them a fee anymore. When you need workers in the house, have them bring toys. Not video games, just dolls and stuffed animals. I’ll do what I can to distract them. But I want soap and shampoo. And bring me a laptop. I’ll start looking for an exorcist.”
Rachel stood there listening. When I was done with my demands, she still said nothing for a moment, then asked, “Why would you stay? I’ve been in there, I know what they do.”
All those hours of sitting in my car had taken me through every scenario I could come up with. This question was always going to be asked. I could tell her that they had been children at one time, and that I had missed out on having my own. That I thought I could help them. But I was too exhausted to care about my dignity.
“I have nowhere else to go. It’s a house and a bed. I wasn’t suppose to end up... maybe this is how I start over.”
*****
I don’t know how long I’ve been here. I’ve lost track, but I don’t think it’s been a long time. Rachel comes by and meets with people. She’s changed her Mercedes for a Volvo. There’s a baby seat in the back. She always leaves quickly.
The people who come inside are down on their luck, rough-looking, but they don’t stay. I try to calm them once the kids start their games. I brush my fingers through their hair but this seems to make things worse because they can’t see me.
I tried to hold up my end of the bargain. I let some workmen in the house, and I went upstairs with the new toys. The children didn’t want me.
The workmen showed up the next day and looked through the window, saw me crumpled at the bottom of the stairs. Some of the new toys were piled on me. My body was taken, but I’m still here. I have nowhere else to go.
Well, now. Did I amuse you? Enough to hit that little heart thingy?
I’ve made a whole lotta paid posts free to everyone recently. Beginning with late May, 2023, all those old ones are available for you to dig through. Start here and work backwards, and consider becoming a Creep Club member so you don’t have to wait 16 months to read about curses and scary children. You’ll likely find broken links and huge pics, but also lots of fun.
Next week: we’re dining at an unusual and creepy restaurant in New England, sweating through a pile of hot weather horrors, and talking about the most disastrous game of catch ever.
Holey moley! Yikes! Brilliant and entertaining! Thanks for keeping that creepy spirit alive all year round.
Superb detail work, and some nice twists near the end.