This House

This house I'm living in has a history.

Yes, it is full of my husband's only happy childhood memories. And it is the place where we came together as teenagers when we couldn't be together anywhere else. It is even the house where Patrick spent his summer of transition.

But to me it will always be my husband's grandmother's house. Because she is everywhere here. From the box of slides I found in the junk drawer, to the manuels for seventies era appliances I found in the kitchen. From the hair pins that show up randomly all over, to the rooms full of antique (or just crappy) furrniture.

But she just may be here in a more etheral sense too. Because I swear I've seen her ghost.

I swear over and over again that I don't believe in such nonsense. That shadow I see by the front stairs is just a reflection. Or my imagination. But at least five people have mentioned seeing the same shadows.

And it's freaking me out.

I have way too much time to sit and stare into that dark corner and imagine what my kids' great grandmother has seen in this house.

I bet she never saw hot man on man action until I invited my friends to stay. Nevermind some of the things I've done myself.

This house was once a tavern though, and I suppose my visitor could have been a former patron. Okay. That's even creepier.

And people wonder why I never turn off any of the lights.