A House Called George

A House Called George

She had spent most of the day painstakingly sweeping away more than one hundred years of cobwebs from the high ceilings. They had shimmered, wave-like in the breeze. The resident daddy long-legs spiders up there were the biggest ones she had ever seen.

Her curly red hair, normally very neat and tidy, was now messy and covered in dust and cobwebs. Her face, smeared with brown streaks, where she had wiped away the sweat. The glass louvre windows were coated in so many decades of dirt, you could barely see through them. She rubbed her hand over the glass, clearing away some of the grime. It would take more than just a wipe to clean them. That would be a job another day.

Jane stopped for a minute. She imagined her grandmother, all those years ago, looking out of those same windows. Her newborn baby in her arms, watching her youthful husband working diligently in the yard. He had carefully hand-crafted the house with love. A place that would see them through all the good times and the bad.

The old place had so much character, it almost seemed to have its own personality. Jane called the house George. Even as a child, visiting her grandparents there every summer, it had always been George. She didn’t know where that name had come from. Something just told her it should be George. Now George was all hers. If only George could talk, what amazing tales would he tell?

The old, worn out, lino floors most likely hid layers of newspapers from the early 1900s. The floors must have really looked amazing in their day, with the intricate patterns. Now the corners were all curled up and discoloured.

How many generations of children had run down that hallway and out into the yard to play? Jane used to love the homemade swing made by her grandfather. It was still hanging from the branch of the massive fig tree in the yard. Today it was just a tattered piece of rope, barely clinging to a rotten piece of wood. Another favourite activity was walking around on stilts. Grandpa had made them from big, empty steel cans with string handles.

Two big green frogs had made themselves a home in the outside toilet, waiting to surprise unsuspecting users. What on earth would make a frog want to live there?

George was a high-set house, with enough room to easily walk around underneath. Under the house was also a favourite place for the children to play. The tangled mess of pipes under the floor made it blatantly obvious that the old man had done all of the plumbing himself. Some very imaginative routing of pipes, to say the least.

There was still some of the old furniture left, most likely destined for the thrift store. Except for the antique wardrobe in the back room, that was definitely staying. With its ornately carved doors and oval shaped mirror on the front, it had always fascinated her. In her childhood days she imagined the door would magically open and she would climb inside. From there, many great adventures had been conjured up in her mind. Her grandparents had always kept it locked though, so Jane never really knew what was in there.

Now that the house was hers, she was determined to uncover the mystery contents once and for all. Her curiosity was intense, her imagination ran wild. Was there a fortune in cash and jewels, or other treasured, family heirlooms inside? Or perhaps just some old moth-eaten clothes.

Unfortunately, there was no sign of the key anywhere. Maybe they had simply lost the key and just never bothered to look for it. Either way, she just had to know what was inside. There must be a key somewhere. Despite searching thoroughly in all the drawers and cupboards, Jane still couldn’t find the key.

It had been another long, tiring day of cleaning. The warm water from the shower felt so good. The dust mixed with the water and trickled down her arms and legs in tiny brown rivers. The freshly washed towel smelled beautiful. She glanced at the mirror, it also needed cleaning. After looking closer at the reflection, she saw a key hanging on the wall behind her. How had she not seen that before? Could it be the key?

Key in hand, still half wet. Pulling on her pants as she walked, she tripped over, quickly jumped back up and ran to the back room. Full of anticipation, she slid the key into the lock and turned it. The fancy, ivory handle felt nice in Jane’s hand. The door creaked as it opened. Jane was greeted by the stale, musty smell. The same smell that is present with all old furniture.

Inside was nothing but an old printer. You know the type, with the continuous roll of serrated-edged paper, and little holes all along the sides. Her grandparents had never even owned a computer to her knowledge, so why would they have a printer? And if they did, why would it be locked away in there?  Surely there had to be something else inside there. She examined all the shelves with a flashlight, in case she’d missed something. Still nothing. Deflated, Jane closed the wardrobe door and headed off to bed.

Next morning she woke to feel something digging into her cheek. It was the wardrobe key, right there on her pillow. How did that get here? She was sure she had left it in the wardrobe door and went to check. The old carved door was wide open and a light was blinking from inside. How could that be? The printer wasn’t even plugged in.

Jane carefully lifted it out and placed it on the table, still staring at the blinking light in disbelief. After several strange clicking and whirring noises, the printer spat out a single sheet of paper. Zzzzzip! Jane tore off the sheet and ran to the bedroom to grab her reading glasses.

It read - Hello Jane, Thanks for getting those cobwebs down. They were really tickling me. Are you going to live with me now? Sincerely Yours                                  George

Jane fainted.