/yesod

Tag: house

  • the last house

    the last house

    (This dream was predicated by the delivery of some cardboard boxes from U-Haul. I had some old items in the basement that needed to be packed up and so when the boxes arrived I placed them in the back hallway. Later that evening, this is what I dreamed…)

    …from one side a spirit approaches me, draped in ivory cloth and vibrating with agitation. The spirit’s face is pressed forward through the gauzelike wrappings covering her head, frantic with worry as she confronts me.


    “What’s going on? Where are you going?” She cries hoarsely, shaking her hands. Her distress and misery are palpable, distorting the air around her, warping the edges of the room like the radiating waves coming off of a heat mirage. “Why are you leaving me?”

    At first, I thought this apparition was some sort of ghost but it occurs to me that she is in fact the spirit of our house—literally, she is the house—and the boxes in the hallway have upset her. She thinks we’re moving away. And she is upset.  

    I assure her as best I can, patting her shoulders at first and then hugging her, telling her that we aren’t going anywhere. Eventually I lead her in an awkward dance around the living room, hoping to cheer her up.

    —

    Over the next few days, when I think of it, I pat the walls of our home or briefly lay a palm on one of the doorframes, and say “It’s okay, we’re not going anywhere…” hoping to reassure her. 

  • ghost weather

    Early summer afternoon. Overcast skies.

    Waiting for storms.

    The house is gray. Quiet.

    Pale light from outside, dim within. The air still, dead.

    Every room feels empty and full at the same time. An unseen crowd gathers.

    Something around every corner.

    Watchful. Waiting.

    Patient.

  • kitchen door

    For some reason, I am holding a bottle of olive oil in my hand while my daughter and I take a walk around the block.

    (We are not at home, this is not the neighborhood where we live in the waking world. This is someplace else. I do not recognize it from either my dreams or the waking world.)

    Midway through the walk, she becomes scared and tries to hide between two hedges. Losing sight of her fills me with panic and I cast about, calling her name. Her whimpering draws me to her and I coax her out: “Let’s go home. We don’t need to finish this.”

    On the way back I notice that the olive oil is bubbling, almost boiling. The cap on the bottle is venting, spitting like a soda bottle that’s been shaken up.

    The house is dark inside, cheap paneling and shag carpet. The furnishings are mismatched and poorly constructed. My daughter runs through a low doorway looking for her mother. She is still terrified and I am starting to feel the same. There is an oppressive presence in the house.

    I feel it everywhere. For some reason my daughter hides under a low curved desk — a terribly tacky paneled affair with a curved return to one side. I try to climb below it to get her out but it is a maze of panels and pressboard beneath. I discover an electrical outlet bristling with jerry-rigged extension cords.

    The door to the kitchen opens before my hand can reach the knob. I attempt to pull it closed and I can feel the strength of an unseen hand pulling back against me.

    It is far stronger than I.