The Locked Door

The house. The house that has haunted my dreams since I was a child. That’s where it all began. It was a old, three story, stucco house with dark beams throughout and an old, dank basement. I hesitate to even mention the attic, lest it creep into my dreams once again.

My father moved into this house with my stepmother and her 4 children after divorcing my mother.

I remember thinking there was something really wrong with my stepmother. She was always talking about all of the ghosts there were in the house. I often wondered if she were a witch. Not that I even knew what a real witch looked like.

She had this big, red stuffed chair. Her cat would give this chair a wide birth when walking by. She’d put the cat in the chair just to watch it hiss and try to get away as soon as it could. She said it was a haunted chair. I thought she was haunted.

In all fairness, let me interject at this point, that in the years to come she was diagnosed a schizophrenic. A serious illness to be sure, and very sad. I wish someone had seen the signs.

My brother and I were allowed to visit when my stepmother would allow. Mark was six years older than I and had always been my protector. I would need him.

And so it began.

I remember quite vividly the first time I saw that house. For some unknown reason, it frightened me. No, it scared me to death. Sure, I had quite a vivid imagination for a nine year old, but I would soon learn that my imagination would not play a part in the terror that would grip my very being one dark night.

The attic. The one place in the house that no one else in the house gave any thought to. Except me. It was situated off of the boy’s bedroom. It had steep stairs and a heavy trapdoor making it very hard to access. Quite dangerous, actually. My father deemed it unsafe, and I remember the day he found the skeleton key and locked the door.

To me, the house was alive. I felt tuned into the house. Every creek on the stairs some specter was responsible for, every groan the old windows made on a windy night were evil beings trying to gain their way into the house. It petrified me. Common sense held no place in my mind when it came to that house. Soon, my fears would be realized. That locked attic door. My nightmare.

The house, being as old as it was, had no air conditioning and on particularly hot nights it was not uncommon for members of the family to escape the heat of the second floor bedrooms and sleep on the first floor wherever they could find room. One night, my stepsister, with whom I shared a bedroom with when I visited, and I decided not to. Why oh why.

I was awakened to the faint sound of crying. Sitting up in bed, I looked at my stepsister to see if she was crying in her sleep. No. I found myself getting out of bed and walking down the long hallway that led to the stairs. Like I had no choice. With a death grip on the bannister I descended to a small landing and peered over to see who was crying. There was nothing. Save an occasional snore.

I froze. I dare not scream for fear that whatever was making that unholy sound would find me. Quietly, so as not to be discovered by what I somehow knew was not of this world, I willed my legs to walk up the stairs. At the top of the stairs I froze again. What to do next? Well, that was about to be answered for me.

I heard a click. A metallic click. A familiar sound. It was the same sound I heard when my father took that skeleton key and locked the door to the attic.

Just to my left at the top of the stairs was the room. I mean, THE ROOM that led to the attic. At that point, I remember wondering why no one else was hearing this crying, whimpering sound I so desperately didn’t want to hear.

To this day, I don’t know why I walked into that room. It was almost as if I was willed there. I closed my eyes, not wanting to see the evil creature, or ghost that was forever stealing my visions of unicorns and fairies. The ghastly sounds reached a crescendo and my eyes flew open. The attic door was open and the trapdoor as well. Somewhere in my mind I knew that this was very, very wrong.

I remember feeling my heart beating faster

and faster, every muscle in my body trembling, and worst of all, waiting, waiting for some “thing” to come flying down those steep attic stairs to suck the life out of me.

Then I heard this terrible high pitched screaming. Gut wrenching, terrifying. Oh dear God! It was me! I could do nothing else. As I write this, I can’t even think of a word to describe the sounds coming out of my mouth.

The next thing I remember is hearing my brother, my “Bubby” calling my name and yelling that he was coming. Everyone was screaming. My knees crumbled, but I vividly remember I wasn’t even crying. My brother picked me up and he told me everything was going to be ok.

But it wasn’t, it isn’t, and probably never will be. In all probability it will haunt me forever.

As my brother carried me out of that room, I had to look back. I had to. I didn’t hear the crying anymore.

Now, you might think I’m making this up, or maybe it was a dream, or just a young girl with an overactive imagination. But, I’ll tell you one thing with certainty.

When I looked back that night.

That attic door was locked.