Cat Collins xo

The House was haunted, I knew that by now. In the dusty living room you picked up an old, red leather bound book.

“Los Malditos,” you read the title aloud, raised an eyebrow and looked over at me. I studied a framed photo on a shelf. It looked to be from the 1960’s, maybe early 70’s. A couple and their dog. The man was round in the middle with parted gray hair and thick rimmed glasses. His hand was at the small of the woman’s back. She wore a green patterned dress and brown rimmed glasses below her fluff of brown hair. She looked wearied from life, but tough enough to carry on. My mom always said women looked older than men because men wore them out. Their dog seemed happy. Nobody smiled. 

The house began to creak. A cold air blew into the room like breath from long dead lungs. Thunder rumbled in the distance. A book on the shelf fell to the floor. The mirror above the fireplace began to crack. I knew we should run, but you didn’t. You were always brave enough to see what came next. A door slammed in the next room and we both jumped. I noticed that familiar glint in your eye. 

“We need to get out of here,” I said.

Another book flew off the shelf past your head. The red book fell from your grasp and all the pages started turning. I thought I heard a woman laugh. 

We made a run for it. 

“This is what normal people are like,” you said, “their lives are just big haunted houses and they’re running all over the place from ghosts an-and creaky floors. They don’t wanna deal with the scary stuff.” You got this excited about everything. Were there ghosts? Spirits? Were they mean or were they just wanting a little attention? Would we make it out of here? You weren’t as afraid of the answers as you were thrilled by the possibilities. 

“This is not normal,” I said screaming at another thump from the walls as we ran through the dining room towards the front of the house.

When we were married, you made me feel like I was made of marble. Like you couldn’t get me lifted into the clouds to join your head. You could see everything from up there, but I was stuck on the ground. Like when you wanted to open a bar in the small town you had convinced me to move to.

“Who would run it,” I asked.

“You and me,” you said, your eyes twinkling.

“You and me,” I asked.

“How hard can it be? We’ll hire people.” 

“I don’t have any idea about business, counting tills, balancing books. I don’t know how to make a Manhattan or an Old Fashioned or a lot of things. Neither do you.”

“People in this town like beer anyway. We’ll take a business class.” 

I made a face.

“Okay, I’ll take a business class,” you conceded. 

The town did need a bar. Desperately. A place for people to go and laugh together, listen to music, get out of the house. I saw your vision, but I couldn’t see how to bring it down from the clouds. You were so generous in your ability to dream up exactly what people needed. And I had to wake you up. 

I wondered if the ghost inside the house was throwing books and slamming doors because it was afraid of us. 

We ran through the foyer towards the front door shoulder to shoulder. The rug underneath us was snatched back and we went tumbling to the floor. We scrambled up running faster, you pulling me by the hand. Things were crashing and slamming behind us as if the house was using everything it had to scream. My stomach dipped when you went to turn the doorknob to leave. Maybe it wouldn’t open. Maybe all the sounds the house made were its digestion noises and it was swallowing us alive. I held my breath. You turned the knob and a part of you hoped we might be trapped together inside. 

The bar never opened. You never finished the business class and neither of us ever learned to make a Manhattan. You flitted on to the next thing, light as a feather. You were like the angel on someone’s shoulder and you made me the devil by default. You believed in so many things that failed that it left me with little hope for what would become of us. 

The door flung open and we dashed out into the yard. We hadn’t reached the sidewalk when we stopped to look back. Were we safe? Did we need a priest? A medium? Sage? Gasoline and a match? 

You pulled me closer to you as your eyes searched all around the outside of the house. Our hearts beat like drums. 

“I think we’re safe,” you said, your chest heaving. You finally looked away from the house to look at me. 

“You’re bleeding,” I said. You reached up to touch the blood on your forehead and looked back up at the house. 

We stood on the sidewalk catching our breath and looking for signs of ghosts. You hadn’t let go of my hand. I hadn’t let go of yours. It started to rain.