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My Childhood Home

My mother moved into this one storey, white house on a corner when I was about four years old. I vaguely remember visits there, but nothing of importance. Then, my mom got pregnant with my sister. For the sake of the story, let’s name my sister Olivia.

Until Olivia was about two years old, nothing really happened in the house. As we both got older, and more active around the house, things began to start that still scare me fourteen years later.

It started with the dog, Daizy. The doors would always open randomly and let her outside, or she would somehow become unclipped off her chain, but I was always told it was the wind, and that Daizy had figured out to unclip it herself. We also had a huge, brick fireplace, with a concrete slab on top that held all the photographs in frames of various sizes and shapes. I remember sitting in the living room, on many separate occasions and watch all the photographs, and there was about 15 of them, all fall down at the exact same time. Some fell frontwards, some fell back, but it was always at the same time. Whenever I asked my mom about it, she just said we were playing to rough, or the dog was jumping around, causing them to fall.

With all the photographs, it can be said that my mom loved to take pictures. I have a photo where Olivia, Daizy and I are sitting on the floor and there is a white, semi transparent very clear human figure crawling on the floor in front of us. There is another photo of my mom and my uncle, and there is a woman behind them, who obviously wasn’t there.

There were various things that would occur, bed covers being pulled of, lights would go out, things would be moved. On a sadder note, besides the cat my mom brought with her, all seven pets (5 cats, Daizy, and a guinea pig) my mom bought, including a kitten for my birthday, died. They all died very suddenly, and very early in their lives. We stopped getting pets after the kitten.

One of the biggest things that happened, still haunts my mom to this day. Olivia and I had bunkbeds, and even though she was about three now, she got the whole bottom bunk to herself. I was sleeping at my moms that night and climbed the ladder to get to my bed, watched The Jungle Book with Olivia and fell asleep.

I don’t remember anything else that happened, but my mom told me when I was older, that she went in because she had heard crying. She walked in to find me on the bottom bunk, curled into a ball in the corner, sound asleep, and Olivia, off the bed, kneeling on the ground, with her hands on the bed, clasped into a prayer position, also sound asleep.  My mother was worried about the prayer stance, and immediately fixed Olivia, left us both on the bottom bunk and left the door opened.

I was also never allowed in the basement by myself, and my mom refused to go down there. I always assumed it was because from the one time I went down there, it was made of concrete, and was freezing.
My mom moved out of my house after two years, and when she told me I was not upset in anyway. Two years ago my mother and I were having a talk about the old houses, where she admitted something to me.

Three weeks before we moved in, the husband and the wife living there had a fight, and the husband beat the wife to death in an angry rage in the living room. He then, in fear of getting caught, stuffed her body into the crawl space in the basement, where she remained for three days before someone found her.

I’d always wondered why we never removed that ratty, stained rug from the living  room floor.

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