the magic house
Every time my husband and I visit our daughter and her family, we walk to the shopping area which is less than a mile away. On the way we passed three semi-detached houses that have a street on both sides. The houses at both ends are in beautiful shape; fresh paint jobs, solid ceilings, manicured patios and attractive entrances. The house in the middle is a completely different story.
This visit, I stop and take a really good look at it. The gray tile roof is in surprisingly good shape, as is the red brick exterior. However, the windows, garage door and front door are encased in a solid wall of dirty gray concrete. Much of the house is covered by trees, shrubs, and vines that creep over brick surfaces. The weeds are winning the fight for dominance and the brick steps leading to street level and the area below them are littered. Several large stones are barely visible in the overgrown lawn and once the prominent plants poke their heads out, they search in vain for room to grow as warm weather approaches.
My granddaughter, S, stops with me. “Look at that house,” I tell him. “Every time we visit I wonder what happened to the owners and why all the windows, garage door and front door are cemented shut.”
His eyes widen and I realize he’s seeing the house for the first time even though he drives past it frequently. “Let’s take a look at the front door,” I tell him. I start up the front steps, looking for loose bricks. S of her follows me, a look of fear and anticipation on her eight-year-old face. I’m having a great time, engaging her imagination.
We walk to the front door and look around, my husband yelling warnings to be careful behind us. S takes my hand and we examine the front door: there’s definitely no way in. The cement is solid. So we turn and walk down the steps, my husband offering me a hand because there is no railing.
“Maybe people had to leave in a hurry,” says S. “Maybe someone was sick or had no money.” She’s hopping from one foot to the other, animated and engaged in this game we’re playing. All the way to the shopping area, we talked about the house and wondered why people left. Maybe they had to leave in a hurry and couldn’t come back, or there was a fire in the house. Or maybe they are still there and have a secret opening to get food and water.
On the way back, I open the mailbox and pull out the only piece of mail, a card covered in dirt and cobwebs. She has been here for a while. S and I look at it: it’s dated October 2015 and it’s a notice to appear in court for creating a nuisance. Of course! What else could it be.
That night, we go to dinner at the house of S’s other grandmother. At the end of the evening, the subject of “the house” is discussed. S of her tells the story of her, her raised voice and her animated face. I love to see her.
We all wondered if we could find any information about the house. A guest suggests we look at the public records. She thinks it would be difficult to sell because whoever bought the property would have to pay creditors. Also, there may be many links against the property. Someone else explains that the foreclosure process is initiated by creditors and a foreclosure sale would pay off any liens and would not encumber the property for the new owners. But we are all curious to know what happened to the house and the owners. Our circle of detectives has widened.
We talked about what might be inside. Someone suggests that there might be rats floating around in a flooded house; the floor boards might be sagging so the door had to be cemented for safety reasons; most likely it was abandoned and turned into a marijuana house. Everything seems plausible.
The next day we take another walk to the shopping area. This time S takes the camera from him (a Hanukah gift) and I take my iPhone. At the house, S and I started taking pictures, even taking pictures of the mailbox. When we are at home, we send each other our photos. Then S motions for me to follow her into his room. We sit on the bed and make ourselves comfortable.
“I know what’s in the house,” he confesses.
“Than?” I ask.
“It’s a magical house.”
“Magic?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says. “You have to know the magic word to enter the house and only special people know it. And when you’re inside, you can float in the air and order food and eat it while you’re floating.” She laughs “Then you might be nauseous!”
We both laugh. “I think you’re absolutely right,” I tell him. “The house is magical.”
Mystery solved.