Every time I descend this hill, I’m amazed by the beauty before me. A curtain of trees stretches as far as my eyes can see. And then I wonder what it looked like to my ancestors. The people responsible for my creation. The settlers who donated their genes.
Admittedly, this particular hill wasn’t here. It’s man-made to accommodate modern transportation. The pioneers who came to this valley didn’t need one more hill to climb with horse and Conestoga wagon, they’d faced enough obstacles. Why create more?That’s the thing with people. We make advances but then place obstacles in our way under the guise of efficiency. Really, quite crazy, but we are who we are. Changing isn’t easy.
I was here for a reason other than to admire the view. Seemed like I did that too much in life. The view got obscured by the work. And the work was always there. Today, I was here to interview the residents of The Maars house for my magazine “Haunted and Happy.” As you probably guessed, it’s a magazine about people who live and work in haunted homes and buildings.
Every time I walk into a Haunted Home, I expect to find Gomez and Morticia. But I’ve yet to meet them. Most families who live in haunted homes are really quite normal people. If there is anything such as normal in the world anymore. One wonders.
Anyway, as I turned onto the slightly wider than a cowpath Maars road my pulse reeved in anticipation. Even though I worked in a haunted building for several years, I’d never actually seen a ghost that I knew was a ghost. I’ve heard and seen an angel a time or two, but never actually seen a ghost. With each house that I came to, I hoped that this time would be the time. This time I’d actually see the ghost.
If Maars road was slightly wider than a cowpath, the Maars’ driveway was slightly narrower than a cow path. Willow trees on each side provided a covered path to beckon me forward. These trees would be a great place for Ghosts to hid. I watched way too much Scooby-Doo as a child. My mind wild with creepy things that could jump out of the trees and attack my car.
Someone asked me once, why I did what I did.
How could I not? I was a thrill seeker of the paranormal kind.
I was hoping for the Psycho House. What I found was a Civil War era farmhouse exquisitely maintained.
Darn.
Oh, well. Gomez could still be inside.
I rapped on double mahogany doors with a brass knocker. Very Ghost-house like, and a man short with wire-rimmed glasses and balding black hair met me at the door. Okay, so Gomez he was not. More like works out of his basement accountant before computers, he was.
Once in the door, he escorted me to a grand room with a white carved mantle over an expansive fireplace. A low fire burned. I turned to admire the flames and there in the fire was his wife. Based on the mantle photos.
Story Pieces are just that. Pieces of stories sometimes off the cuff and sometimes from writing exercises that are waiting to be developed. If you’d like to read more, please let me know.
