Haunted 24/7

The Hubbard House wasn’t like other haunted houses. The 3 story gray and white Victorian sat amongst others in downtown Sacramento. Though there was no one living inside, the paint looked fresh and no cobwebs lurked in its corners. No bare trees with branches like bony fingers and knuckles scratched the head of the house. The grass stood devotedly neat and dark green. The hot Sacramento summer suns tried their best to add splashes of brown and yellow highlights to the tips of their green blades, but yet it remained still, unscorched, and stubborn. Weeds dared not cross into its borders and the flowers grew beautifully and flagrantly across the porch. Of these, red roses were the most abundant and colorful, but they always remained closed, never blooming open, and petals never knowing the taste of the ground. They stood as the Queen’s Guard armed with thorns aimed at anyone who dared breach the royal blue double doors or approach the stone with the shimmery piece of metal embedded inside. No one had been inside the house since old man Hubbard passed away 5 years ago; The house simply wouldn’t allow it.

Late at night, every night, a light shone over the city from the 3rd story attic. It was as if it kept a watchful eye over the land and for trespassers.

“That house gives me the creeps,” said Morgan. “How can a house no one lives in still look like that?”

“I wish we could live there.” I said.

“I wish we could live anywhere.” sighed Morgan.

It was true. We didn’t live anywhere. Rent got too high even with mom working double shifts at Knight’s 24/7 Diner and we were evicted from our 2 bedroom apartment. So now we either couch hop with friends and family or hide.

“Hop or hide tonight, Mom?” asked Morgan.

“Hide” replied Mom. The term “hide” embarrassed her. We hid parked in dark alleys or dimly light streets and tonight, like many nights, we would be sleeping inside our 1998 SUV.

If mom had to work late at the diner, she would park in the back seemingly always next to the grease. We knew to be incognito as I studied for my algebra tests and Morgan her AP exams by the guise of a reading light shrouded in a concealing blanket. Sometimes we would peak out of the window and watch mom serve hot coffee to strangers and familiars alike. They had the luxury of sitting down to relax for a savory meal of their choice. Mom did not. She was stuck in a cycle of budgeting for 3 on a minimum wage salary planning meals that were often packaged, dry and utensils optional. After working a late shift, mom would often sink exhausted into the driver’s seat where she always slept. Her fingers bent from gripping the pen to write orders and hands dry from constant contact with chemicals to wipe down tables. Sometimes, I saw her looking at her hands as if they were meant to do something else. Something more.

“My turn to sleep in the backseat Arthur!”

“No it isn’t. I’ve got a big math test tomorrow and I have to be ready. Mom!”

“Morgan, it is his turn. You had it for 3 days in a row last week.”

Morgan relented with slight jealousy and continued to scroll through pictures of models. She touched her face, as she had done often, wishing it was less full and prettier. She re-imagined her Goodwill clothing to be of the latest fashions both elevating her style and bringing her from out to in as one of the popular girls in her high school.

As for me, though a lot of kids in my 6th grade class had phones, I did not. I could not tell them that we could not afford it, so I told them my mom wouldn’t let me have one. I had become very skilled with my “explanations.” However, most of the words that exited my mouth were honest, but I had also made a commitment to lying out of social necessity and pride.

No one knew we were working class homeless, but us.

As we were about to pass the Hubbard House, the car began to jerk and pull back continuously stopping right in front. The attic light now lit.

“That’s strange,” I said. “I thought the light came on late at night.”

“I have never been this close to the Hubbard House before,” I said, my voice trembling.

“We will be fine. Let’s get our things from the back and get ready to settle down for the evening,” Mom replied.

As we left the car, a man walking a dog called out to us on the opposite sidewalk. He wore a long, black trench coat and carried a long walking stick.

“You know. Mervin Hubbard lived there for 27 years. He spoke to neighbors just one time. He said whoever removes a key from the stone, then that will be their home.”

The old man continued, “Broken souls will be refined when they themselves do find.”

Mom, Morgan and I looked at each other in confusion as to what the saying meant and this business about the key in the stone.”

“What does….” I began to ask.

But the man and his dog were gone.

“Suddenly the weather began to change. Even at 7 pm, it had been 90 degrees, but no longer. It was getting colder and colder each moment. A rushing mighty wind stampeded us, and then came the furious rain. It felt like melting ice upon our skin.

“Let’s hurry up and get in the car,” said Mom.

We rushed into the car drenched and dripping all over the torn cloth seats. I reached over to grab 3 towels from the back and we wrapped them around ourselves. Mom started the car so we could have some heat, but the car would not start.

“What is going on?” shouted an exasperated Morgan.

“I don’t know. But we can’t stay here,” sighed Mom.

I peered out, but the rain oozed down like slime over the windows blocking a clear view. What I could see was now 2 sets of lights coming from the Hubbard House. One in the attic and the other in the front window. Both were a mixture of bright orange and yellow like the glow of a warm fire combined with the light from the noon day sun. I turned towards Morgan and mom to get their attention at this new discovery but mom said …

“There. There is where we will stay the night.”

Mom pointed over my shoulder straight….. at the Hubbard House.

“Esta un poco loca?” said Morgan.

Morgan thought mom could not understand beginning Spanish much less than AP Spanish, but mom knew a little and was not amused. As the words exited, Morgan put her hands over her mouth but could not recapture the words. For a teenager, she was usually really respectful but desperate times can create loose lips. I sank down into the backseat preparing to soon be an only child.

“Yes. Crazy about my kids. I will protect you both to no end."

She may not have to protect us this time from other humans and circumstances, but against the spirits of the unknown. Would mom be the Ghost Slayer or would we be ghost meat?

We stood at the end of the driveway preparing to cross the forbidden boundary into the property.

We could see only 4 ft in front of us as the rain, wind, and steam from the once hot pavement gave us tunnel vision with a straight trajectory directly to the house. It was the one place where I wanted to live, but didn’t want to be.

We walked on the path to the front door. We braced ourselves for the mythical flying thorns. Upon our approach, the flowers shook not from the wind, but from our presence. They leaned forward to inquire who dared entered their space.

“Ouch!” we shouted together.

“Something pricked me in my mouth,” I said.

“Something poked my right cheek,” exclaimed Morgan.

“Something pinched my hand,” said Mom.

Three single pricks. As I rubbed my lips, I glanced at the closest rose stem and it was missing 3 thorns.

“Let’s hurry,” Mom said.

We had passed the first obstacle and now faced the blue door. As we approached, it began changing colors from blue to green to yellow repeatedly.

“Mom, are we really going inside? You know this could be considered breaking and entering,” I said.

“Oh no! Mom’s going to the big house! Orange is so not the new black,” joked Morgan to disguise her fear.

As her fingers touched the knob, the door creaked open a few inches. A sliver of light escaped into the night after being freed from 4 walls for 5 years. Mom and Morgan entered first and I stayed behind. As I closed the door, a wave of emotions captured me in a bear hug: disbelief, relief, curiosity and fear. I briefly looked back at the wetness still outside and wondered if we would ever walk upon the pavement again.

To be Continued…..