Back to the story. My grandparents used to live in this semi-old house. I don't know how old it was, but it had this feeling of neither really being old or being new. As far as I know, the people who owned the house before my grandparents were the only other people that had lived there. Now, my grandfather is dead, and my grandmother is in a nursing home. I used to love going to my grandparent's. I loved my grandfather. He was fun and quirky and wise. Even though he was quite old he wasn't judgmental or unconsciously racist, and was open to new things. If he had lived until I realized I was bisexual, I don't think he would have minded the least bit. However, I always had this fear of the house itself, especially the two guest rooms. And I had my reasons.
I don't know how old I was, but I believe it happened the year I turned three. I was in the innermost guestroom, sleeping in a rather large wooden crib. I remember feeling like I was way too old for such childish sleeping arrangements, but my grandmother wanted me to sleep there, so I did. I don't know what time it was, but I woke up in the middle of the night. I don't know why I woke up, but I felt scared. I still remember that feeling exactly, even though everything else has become blurry with time. I opened my eyes, groggily, to find a shadow standing by my crib. After rubbing them, I saw more clearly. It was a man I had never seen before, and the sight of him filled me with such dread. I was a very open innocent child, and I had never been afraid of strangers, with the exception of my uncles girlfriend, but that had it's own reasons. It wasn't in my nature to be afraid of someone at that age, even though he was standing next to my crib. I was too young to understand that that wasn't something people did. But it was so terrifying, something more than an 'Oh god it's an intruder' feeling. He just stood there, looking at me with dead cold eyes. No emotion in his face. I closed my eyes, and kept them shut, and in the end I guess I either fell back asleep, or I fainted, cause I don't remember anything else after that.
The day after I told my parent's about this, and of course, as most parents would, they said it was just a dream. Ever after that night, until the last time I came there, when my grandfather died, I slept uneasily, was almost afraid of going to sleep. I believe this is part of the reason my body has a hard time falling asleep at night to this day.
There was also something else about the house. The two guest rooms are next to each other, and you have to go into the first one to get to the second one. Along one wall in both rooms, there were these old ugly closets, plain white, that stood along the walls, stopping just short of where my crib was in the second room. They were plain white closets, that went all the way from the floor to the ceiling. I always had an uneasy feeling when I was around them, and sometimes, at night, one of them would open, seemingly by itself. I could never walk past these closets when one of the doors was open, without shutting it. I don't really know the reason for this, but rather without me knowing how I came to this conclusion, I think the man that lived in the house before used to shut his wife and son in there, as punishment.
Now, I didn't think much about this during my happy childhood, it was little more than a faint memory, a dream. But then, several years later, I asked my parents if they remembered it. I think it was as we were driving away from the house, and I think it was the year my grandfather died, or a couple of years earlier, I'm not sure. Either way, I believe I was somewhere between 8 and 11. I don't know why I started talking about it at that exact time, maybe something I no longer remembered had happened during that visit, or maybe the feeling of the closets had just brought it back. No matter. I started talking about the man. Describing him. I asked if such a man had ever lived in the house. It was the father, the husband, the previous owner of the house. My mom is an atheist, and she didn't really believe in such things back then. I think that maybe she doesn't really believe this story even now.
How she explains how I can describe a man that died before I was born, that I never had heard mentioned, when I didn't even know anyone had ever owned that house before my grandparents, I don't know. My father, however, believed what I believed, or at least I think he did. It's so long ago, I don't remember much.
I'm rather afraid I don't convey the feeling of fear I had quite well, that it sounds like less of a big deal than it was, but although it's a shame, it doesn't really matter to me. I wanted to at last tell my story, and now I've done it. It's the reason I haven't gone back there since my grandfather died, the fear no longer being worth it, without the appeal of seeing him there.
Nemo