6 Living Inside

6 Lives Inside

The whole strange affair started one Sunday, when we were driving north a long way on the highway (well over an hour) to have a hamburger, fries and a chocolate milkshake at our favourite summer take out place: Weber’s. It was always well worth the drive and the lineup. Nearing our destination we saw an old abandoned house we had seen many times before. It was one of the sights we looked forward to viewing along the way, like a lake or a river. Was it always abandoned when we saw it?  We couldn’t say. It was right beside a car dealership with a large parking lot, and we may have linked the two as belonging to the same family.  As we approached and started to pass the house, giving it our usual absorbing glance, we quite suddenly decided that we wanted to visit the place and take some closeup pictures of it. We both articulated the view that there might be a time soon when it was torn down, no longer to be seen by people like us that looked forward to seeing it as a welcome landmark on the way north. There is a sadness to a house that is no longer a home, and a empty lot would pass on that sadness to those accustomed to seeing it.

         To achieve our impulsive purpose, we had to take a turn off of the highway, drive over a bridge, enter the other side of the highway carefully making our way south between the speeding cars coming back from possibly their final weekend at the cottage. Shortly after passing the house on our left, we turned off the highway again, crossed the highway on another bridge, and headed across back to the north-going lanes. It was more difficult to regain the highway this time, with a longer wait time, and one horn honking furiously when I impatiently began our northward passage. There was a space we could turn off the road, and park in front of the house. It was separated from us by a vitural forest of very tall weeds and a link fence with bent over sections where others must have crossed over earlier – either potential looters or romantics like us. It was fortunate for us that the fence was almost completely broken down in one place, so we could feel confident that we could cross it, even at our age.

           As we approached the house, wading through the weeds, the second storey seemed to be reaching for the sky, accompanied by a few domesticated trees would have been little more than saplings when they were first planted on the north side of the house as part of the outdoor decore.

           The house was covered with a very faded yellowy/orange stucco, probably bearing a  much more distinctive colour when the family saw to its maintenance. The stucco felt rather soft and vulnerable when we put our hands upon it on the south side of the house, and patted it like we would a family dog.

           The eastern backside of the house was generally much less impressive, certainly less majestic, as befitting the part of the house that was hidden from highway drivers. There was a broken window, possibly a victim of a very strong wind or an impulsively tossed rock. There were thick planks of wood that extended across an open space in the back. They looked like they had either been very near to a fire, or had just turned black with age, and negligence. 

           The next sight that drew our attention was seen through an unbroken upstairs window. The object we stared at was a narrow bed lying parallel with the side wall. All we could see of it were the iron pipes which had once supported a mattress, and possibly still did.

           But the strangest and most startling thing we saw was graffitti that read: “6 lives inside”. At first the words were all that we read, but then we identified as part of the message the big 6 that rose above the words, like a hen towering over its chicks. We wondered what that meant. We doubted that there would be six people living there currently, although the bed was a kind of a hint that at least one person might be holding up there as a squatter. That still seemed quite unlikely, however. It probably had been too difficult to move the bed, and it probably would have been too old and fragile for future use in a newer dwelling anyway.

           The mysteries of what remained inside grabbed our attention. We couldn’t walk away for wondering what evidence there might be of the 6 lives advertised as being inside. Then we made a decision. It wasn’t an easy one, but it was harder to resist. We stepped forward to the back door beside the graffiti. Was it loose, unlocked? We didn’t have the slightest idea about what state the door was in, but we wanted to try to see whether we could open it. It looked like it might have once been quite sturdy during the years of parents and children opening and shutting it, returning home or leaving for school or work.

           The door resisted at first, but as I began to vigorously shake it and crash into it with several serious body checks, it finally, begrudgingly opened. It was an experience both exciting, and something to be apprehensive about. We were trespassing, breaking and entering. And our car was in the front for all drivers to see, including the police that regularly patrolled the highway, and might be looking for easy prey to make their day.

           The floor was made of what I would call naked boards, and it creaked a bit as we walked about looking for evidence of there once being six lives taking shelter inside. As we walked into what must have been the living room, we saw on the far wall six portraits, clearly the six that the graffiti had told us about.

           Then the unexpected happened. We heard voices of children and adults, that sounded like the speakers were in the same room with us, but they clearly were not to be seen. They were talking about going to the place that was the reason for our trip. That brought a smile to our faces that shared our expressions of surprise.

           Then a loud sound of screeching tires struck our ears, and there was sudden silence, followed by the gradually fading disappearance of the pictures of the six family members.

           Always being one who likes to experiment, I led my wife out the door, counted to ten, and then I led her back into the house. Sure enough, as I had predicted but did not speak out loud, the pictures reappeared, followed by the talking, the screeching of tires, and the loss of both pictures and sounds once more.

           As we left the haunted building, and headed for our car, we decided to go to the nearest town, even though it could mean seriously delaying our hamburgers, fries and chocolate milkshakes. We hoped that the town library would have articles from their local newspaper available on-line. Sure enough, they did. After an hour’s serious researching, we discovered that the family, the McNeils, were all killed in a car crash one Saturday afternoon four years ago. Apparently, their cremated ashes were scattered on the property. But as we had learned, they also occupied the old house in yet another way.