My New House

I purchased a two-story Federalist-style house, which included a room-sized attic. Its location, in the historic district of Salem, Massachusetts, was perfect. The elderly couple selling the home said it was constructed in 1792 and had belonged to their family ever since. The two were sad to see it go, but since they were the last of their line, well into their 80’s, and in poor health, they felt it was time.

I felt sorry for the two octogenarians as I watched them give the house one last look before heading off to their new home at an assisted living facility. That feeling evaporated as soon as their car turned onto the next street and vanished from sight. I couldn’t believe my good fortune, as a sense of euphoria washed over me. The house had been lovingly cared for over the centuries, with tasteful upgrades and repairs as needed. All that was left for me to do was move in, which I did without delay.

The house came fully furnished, which meant moving in consisted of hanging up my clothes in the downstairs bedroom and stocking the pantry and fridge. Move-in chores complete, I spent the rest of the fall afternoon meandering from room to room, acquainting myself with the contents in each. Hardwood floors were well maintained, sporting a glossy finish. The furniture harkened to a bygone day when skilled workers produced everything. Nothing was out of place.

The sun was well into its westward slide when I took an early evening stroll to the harbor. As darkness overpowered the daylight, I turned back to look at my new home. A soft glow hiding from the sun slowly asserted itself through a window located just under the roof’s gable. The light had to be coming from the attic. Curiosity piqued, I returned to the house.

The back door opened into a kitchen shrouded in darkness. I stepped inside and pushed the door shut as I fumbled for the light switch. The door let out a muffled creak as it swung closed. The sound made me smile. For a moment, I pictured myself in a Hitchcock movie. The light switch decimated the scary movie scene, and I was back in my friendly kitchen. From the kitchen to the rear staircase was a short walk, and in no time, I was standing in the second-floor hallway.

I walked to the opposite end of the hall, where a closed door blocked my access to the attic stairs. No matter which way I turned the doorknob, the wooden sentinel refused to budge. The lock required an old-style skeleton key that the elderly couple neglected to pass along to me. Old locks of this type are relatively easy to pick, but it was getting late, and I didn’t want to start another project. I let the door continue to guard its secrets for one more night.

The following morning, after a hardy breakfast, I grabbed some tools and returned to the attic door. My tools were unnecessary because, as if by magic, the door granted me access to the attic stairs by simply turning its knob. I bounded up the narrow stairway and became immediately struck by two very different vistas. The view of Salem harbor from the window I had seen the night before was spectacular. I could see fishing trawlers and pleasure craft plying the ocean waters from the docks to the horizon. Maybe the old folks took this view for granted because they never mentioned it in the sales literature.

The second thing that caught my eye was the writing. Every wall, from floor to ceiling, was adorned with dates and notes written in elegant script. The room was breathtaking and terrifying at the same time. I scanned the walls until I found the earliest date and the first note.

June 1, 1792: I understood that marrying a ship’s captain meant we would spend time apart. That knowledge doesn’t ease the pain. I will watch for you through this window every day until your return.

The dates and brief notes continued, chronicling each day until a significant entry appeared.

August 10, 1792: I felt our child stir inside me for the first time today. I hope with all my heart that you will be home in time to share this wonderful gift with me.

October 20, 1792: A minister and several men came to the house today. They informed me that your ship was caught in a hurricane, and no one survived. I don’t believe them! I know you’ll come home to me. You must!

I continued reading the woman’s life chronicled on the attic walls. Every date, every plea, as hope slowly eroded.

February 2, 1793: Our son was born today! I named him after his father, John Robert Cabot.

Reading the name sent a chill through every cell in my body. John Robert Cabot was my name. It must be an elaborate hoax. I continued to read until the daylight faded. The dates continued along with the messages. I watched as devotion became an obsession, finally dissolving into madness. I came to the bottom of the fourth wall.

July 25, 2021: Finally, you have returned to me, my darling. We will never be apart again.

I finished reading the last line and was startled by the sound of the attic door slamming shut. A hazy apparition appeared before me, slowly solidifying into a beautiful young woman.

“I’ve missed you so much, my love.”

The octogenarian couple relaxed in their room at the assisted living facility. The woman mused, “Do you think he’s met Maureen yet?”

“Probably,” the old man replied.

“He seemed like such a nice young man. I feel bad about doing this to him.”

“I know, my dear, but there was no other way. We have finally gained our freedom from the house.”