The Old Man and His House

What place was it but a home with a curse upon its name?

Photo by Denny Müller on Unsplash

I didn’t believe in magic, but I believed in curses.

I don’t know where it all started, but I had a hunch. My father’s girlfriend killed herself in the downstairs kitchen. Suffering from debilitating pain thanks to cancer, she could no longer take the brunt of it — especially since cancer treatments in the eighties weren’t what they are today. My father never talked about it, but ghosts fogged his vision.

So many people died in the house; of course it was true that it was haunted.

I knew my father would follow the long line of occupants of the house. It was as if the Old Country had christened the land with its own sorcery that deemed it so. The people who entered the house never wanted to leave — or, if they did, strange things would happen that barred their exit.

It was the same for me.

And, of course, the number of residents who had died in the house meant that each person had left their own mark as far as possessions went.

Books of various languages and ages piled on top of each other on either side of the dining room. Knick-knacks cluttered the shelves of one glass cabinet. Even the table was flush with paraphanalia my father wouldn’t let me touch…