There is ruin and decay

In the House on the Hill:

They are all gone away,

There is nothing more to say.

–Edward Arlington Robinson

“The house is haunted,” I whispered to my brother as we passed the “For Sale” sign on the lawn. We both stopped to look up at the imposing structure. It dominated the slight hill that rose from the stone retaining wall at the sidewalk. He grabbed hold of my arm, wide-eyed and a bit frightened. We were still at the age when big sisters loved to torment little brothers and watch them squirm, when little brothers were uncertain but still bound by a belief in magic and ghosts.

We passed the house daily, walking the three blocks to and from school. It had been shuttered for a year, its lingering vacancy seeping out from the broad eaves and oozing from the twisted Virginia creeper as it crawled its way up the wall and around the lower windows. The brooding winter day, gray and hinting at rain, gave it an even more sinister appearance. Nature’s forces seemed to be in quiet collaboration, claiming dominion over the decaying mansion.

“Are you sure, Lindy?” my little brother asked, a note of nervous excitement overlaying his distrust in a sister who loved to tease. “How do you know?” He was only seven, and I was nine. I had taken responsibility for schooling him in things big sisters know. Even imaginary things.

“Of course I’m sure, Freddie,” I told him. “Look at the shutter on the top window.” It was a dormer, and the right shutter hung by only a corner. “See how it moves slowly back and forth?” He stared at it. “There’s no wind, not even a breeze, but it’s moving.” We could both imagine it slightly wobbling in the dull afternoon light. I looked at him, eager to whisper forbidden knowledge that big sisters have. “It’s the spirit, trying to keep control over the house.” His grip tightened.

It was early November, and every morning and afternoon from then until our Christmas break, as we walked to and from classes, we looked up at the house, and especially at the dormer window. The wayward shutter remained there precariously, occasionally fluttering just the slightest. Or maybe not. Sometimes we stopped for a moment to inspect the house, sometimes we quickly passed by, but always Freddie reached out for my hand as we passed. I had become his protector.

Mom and Dad had assigned me that role at the beginning of the school year, because they both worked and because the neighborhood was very safe and because it was a short walk. But mostly because I had insisted. I wanted to be treated more like a grownup, and I liked feeling responsible for my little brother. The big old house didn’t scare me. Not yet anyway.

The holiday from school was fun and filled with carol singing and tree decorating and Christmas shopping, and our family of four was consumed with the spirit. It lasted a full month, from mid-December until mid-January, and thoughts of the old house and of haunting never entered my mind. I’m not sure the same was true with Freddie.

At dinner on New Year’s Day, Freddie brought it up. “Do you think the house ghost is still there?” he asked, looking at me but inviting a general response. I had not said anything to Mom or Dad, because I really didn’t take it all seriously. I should have realized that Freddie did.

“What’s this?” Dad asked, in good humor, “what house?” Mom added, “What ghost?” Freddie suddenly looked at me as if maybe this was supposed to be a secret between us and he had exposed it, and now maybe I’ll really be pissed. Mom and Dad looked at me, too. I remember shifting a bit uncomfortably in my chair. “It’s that old house for sale in the next block,” I said, maybe sheepishly. “There may be a spirit living there.”

“‘May be’?” Dad asked, frowning ever so slightly at me. So I told them about my little ruse with my brother, insisting that it was only for fun and that he and I were not obsessed with it. Still, Mom was not happy. We changed the subject, but after dinner she took me aside. “Lindy,” she said, “you really should not encourage your little brother to think about haunted houses and such.” She was mildly upset, but not enough to think about punishing me. “You’re old enough to be past those things,” she said. “We’ve entrusted you with his safety walking to and from school. He doesn’t need spirits occupying his mind!” I nodded meekly. “Sorry,” I told her, and I remember feeling embarrassed, and maybe even a bit sorry for Freddie.

The morning that we started back to school, the shutter had disappeared. “Do you think the spirit took it off?” Freddie asked. “Probably it was just blown off,” I said, not wanting to provoke further anxiety. We paused before the house briefly. It had noticeably aged, I thought. Another shutter appeared to be loose, and the creeper was higher now, and almost strangling the windows. We hurried on to school. It had only been a month, and it was the dead of winter, when nothing grew.

When we returned that afternoon, another shutter had disappeared, and the For Sale sign was now lying on the ground behind the retaining wall. The creeper had crept visibly above the windows. I didn’t say anything to Freddie, but I reached for his hand and hurried us on. I thought about saying something to Mom or Dad, but I was in enough trouble already. I didn’t sleep well.

The deterioration progressed. A few days later, on the way home, Freddie wanted us to walk on the other side of the street. I didn’t say anything, but I gladly agreed. As we hurried by, we glanced at the old place. The tree limbs were swaying in the still air and the house was definitely darker and threatening. “I’m scared,” Freddie said, clutching my arm. Me, too, I thought, but I just said, “It’s okay, Freddie.” We ran the rest of the way.

The following morning at breakfast, Freddie whispered, “I don’t want to walk past the house, Lindy.” He seemed to be on the verge of crying. I conjured a very slight stomachache and asked Mom to drive us to school. I, too, was nervous about walking past the old place. As we approached the block, we saw that part of the street ahead was covered in debris. Mom slowed down. The three of us looked in disbelief at the scene: the house was gone. Pieces of siding and roof slate and old timber lay splintered and scattered across the yard and spilled into the street. “Good lord, look at that!” Mom whispered hoarsely. “They demolished it overnight!” Freddie put his hands over his eyes until we drove past.

By the next afternoon, the city had begun cleaning up and the lot was almost clear, a large truck filled with debris parked in the driveway. It was easier, after that, for us to walk to school, but we still stayed on the other side of the street. Freddie and I never talked about the house again and life went on, one grade after another. But I didn’t tease him again. He went through a bedwetting phase for a while, and I had a few nightmares, and we became closer.

Now, six years later, thoughts about the house—nested in the darker corners of my memory—have come back to the surface, and with them some nagging questions. I wonder about the morning we discovered the destruction. Why was no one about in the neighborhood, gawking? Why was there no heavy equipment there, no demolition crew sweeping up? I’m pretty sure that no one bulldozes at night, and yet that’s when it had happened.

And then even darker thoughts intrude. What if the spirit had not been protecting the house, after all? What if it had been consuming it? But I’m older now and I try really hard not to think about it.