Last week, someone asked me on Twitter if I ever get spooked in this big old house. I grew up in the Chicago area (River Grove and Franklin Park), but we didn’t have Victorian houses in that neighborhood. My only references to them as a kid would have been The Addams Family and The Munsters. Creepy, but not scary. More awesome, really.
I am easily spooked though. I no longer watch scary movies because I can’t stop thinking about them for
days months years afterwards. The Gift creeped me out. I don’t even remember much about it, besides a scene with some water and a tree, and oh let’s not think of it. I’m pretty sure that The Ring was the last one I saw, where I decided that yes! That’s it! I’m done with these! In the old house, more often than I’d like to admit, I ran up the stairs at night. Because: zombies. I know it’s irrational, but at least it was good cardio?
In this house though, there has been no nighttime running up stairs. No sprinting down halls in dumb terror. Brandon tries to mess with me. I told him what I was writing about today and he said “yeah, this house is good. Except for that sound of a baby crying. You ever hear it? In the hallway upstairs. But it always sounds far away…” (It isn’t working on me. Yet.) This house feels right. The kids took to it immediately, and we all fit in very happily here. I think that as long as I can go downstairs for a glass of water at night without being scared, and we can have impromptu picnics in the kitchen the next morning, we’re good.
This house feels right in so many ways. I hope we’re here for a long, long time.