Crossing Over

This is a work of fiction. Or is it?

I could hear them. Passersby would pause on the cracked, uneven sidewalk, point at me, and say, “That is the haunted house.” Frankly, I become quite annoyed when they say that. I am NOT a haunted house. Even if spooks, spirits, ghosts, and goblins existed, I would not allow them anywhere near my space. Admittedly, there have been a few “incidents” over the years that some might find suspicious. But, haunted? Nope, huh-uh, no way, not me. How ridiculous. People can be so stupid.

And, yet . . .

I can’t remember when I first became aware that I had special, let’s say, abilities. How does one adequately describe becoming sentient? I had no grand epiphany, no ah-ha moment. At some point, I began to realize that I could do things, unusual things. It may have started with the reflexive swinging of a shutter to shoo away a pesky woodpecker. Or perhaps it was the unconscious opening of a closed window to get some fresh air on a warm spring day. Eventually, I started to recognize that not only was I capable of certain actions, I could control those actions.

The first people to live under my roof were Clara and Hugh Morris. I cannot imagine a more boring, colorless couple. They were middle-aged, childless, quiet, and nondescript, heck, I barely knew they were around. And that was perfectly fine. I provided shelter from the elements, and I received upkeep and maintenance in return. All was well, more or less.

After I became self-aware, I began to think that perhaps I could have a little fun with it. I became a bit of a prankster. For example, every morning ol’ Morris would go outside in his raggedy, striped boxers to retrieve the newspaper from the driveway, so, on occasion, I would close and lock the door behind him. What a ruckus he would cause, ringing the doorbell, pounding on the door, trying to awaken his soundly sleeping wife.

Another prank I enjoyed was to toss their idiot cat’s favorite catnip-laced toy into a closet that was usually closed. The cat, being a curious creature and none too bright, would go in after the toy. While in there, the cat would do his “business” and whatever else it is that cats do, and the Morrises would blame each other for the cat’s mess. They had no idea that I was responsible. It was fun, mischievous but essentially harmless.

However, as time went on, it became less about having fun, and more about something else. As the relationship between the Morrises deteriorated, they paid less and less attention to me. I felt resentful when my yard was cluttered and when my paint was allowed to fade and peel. I hated that my rooms were constantly messy. I began to reek of cigarettes, cooking grease, and body odor. Their incessant bickering wore on me. My harmless pranks began to have an edge to them. I became obsessed with getting these people to stop acting upon their petty grievances with each other, and care for me and respect me and, yes, love me, in the manner I deserved.

My senses developed a razor-like sharpness and I paid extreme attention to everything they said and did. I began to see them as disgusting, awful little people. I felt as though I had to get them to move out as soon as possible. So, my plumbing sprung leaks for no apparent reason; strange, unexplainable noises woke them up at night, light fixtures turned themselves on and off, pets would disappear. I thought I could harass them into leaving and maybe someone wonderful and worthy of my special qualities could move in. However, they seemed unfazed by the calamities surrounding them; they were Mr. and Mrs. Oblivious.

Usually, they spent their time screaming at each other. That was how they communicated. Therefore, it was especially noticeable one languid night when I heard them talking, calmly and agreeably, about a scheme to burn me down for the insurance money. What? Burn me down for the insurance money??  The hell they will.

This was not just idle talk; I knew they were deadly serious, and I knew I had to put a stop to their horrible plan immediately. Pranks simply would not cut it anymore. I had to summon the full measure of power from my darkest depths. It was either them or me, and I choose me. Every single time. Burn me down? The hell they will!

The police were stumped, no forced entry, no fingerprints, no evidence, no clues, nothing except the two lifeless bodies on my Travertine floor at the bottom of the stairs. It was an act of self-preservation, and certainly, those two terrible human beings got what they deserved, but I realized that by taking two lives, I had crossed over into evil. To stop evil I had become evil. And . . . I liked it.

Nothing was ever the same again after that.