1I had the most fabulous nightmare last night, or really…this morning, I believe. It was so incredibly vivid, and drew details from past dreams. I was so entranced by it, I couldn't help but record it.
I think this dream comes from a few things. I miss my big old house. Living in a small house is very difficult for me. I also went on a tour in Marshall recently to see some historic old houses, and some of them were a little creepy. And we drove past the John Bellairs Mansion, which seemed more than a little haunted.
So I've fictionalized this a little to make it more interesting and readable for my audience (I changed point of view from myself to my apparent daughter in the dream). But for the most part, this is my dream.
I watched curiously out the window as Dad drove us through the most run-down neighborhood I'd ever seen. All the houses were enormous and appeared to have once been beautiful. Every house was painted in peeling garish colors, from a faded turquoise to a shade of lemony yellow that hurt my eyes. Mom and Dad were chattering anxiously in the front seat, a habit of theirs when they're nervous. It's a family tradition to take rides to neighborhoods we want to live in someday, but this was the first time we'd visited this one.
"OK back there, Anya?" Dad turned to ask.
"Uh…Dad? Watch the road, OK?" Ahead of us, around a curve, was a spindly metal bridge, painted white, but peeling terribly. We were coming up on some houses even larger than the ones we'd passed so far…but equally run-down. I'd never seen hedges so tall, or streets with so many potholes and tar patches. A white house with tall windows loomed to our right, just after the bridge. It was a veritable mansion, if you didn't consider the waist-high grass and shattered windows. A red, white, and blue sign sat low to the ground, covered in weedy vines.
"Still for sale. After all these years…" Mom was peering out her window. I could see her reflection in the side window. I was detecting a wistful look on her face. I know she used to live in a big old house when she was young. She talks about it often. We live in a small, cramped house that is cluttered practically to the ceiling. I know she wishes we had more room. I do too. I'd like a house with a room just for me, not a bed in the attic.
"There's a car in the drive," Dad noted, slowing the car to a crawl. It might be the realtor. Want to check it out?"
Mom is usually hesitant about his ideas. He's a lot more outgoing than she is. But this time, she jumped right on it. "Let's go see! I'd love to see the inside of it"
Dad parked in the driveway and left Mom and me in the car while he went to see who was there. "Mom," I started, reaching over the driver's seat and locking the doors, "Do you really want to live in a neighborhood like this? I mean, it looks dangerous. It's so run down. I'd be afraid to go outside."
"It is pretty bad, isn't it? But if we could have a beautiful house like this…wouldn't it all be worth it?"
Dad leaned his head out the side door of the house and waved us in. "Go to the front door," he called. "You won't believe it."
The first thing I noticed was the smell. It smacked into my face as soon as the heavy wooden door swung open. It was an overpowering odor of mildew, but there was something else I couldn't quite pinpoint. Mom put her fingers to her nose. "What a smell, eh, Anya?" I stepped into the house and forgot completely about the smell. We were standing in room the length of the house, with wooden floors and twenty-foot ceilings. Sunlight filtered through the dirty windows, which stretched nearly from floor to ceiling. And the grand staircase…wide and curving, splitting in two near the ceiling, creating a balcony effect. The room was certainly dusty and dirty, but definitely stunning. Mom was standing at one of the windows, pulling a massive pink curtain aside. She sighed, and I knew that my arguments about the neighborhood were dead.
"What do you think, Lisa?" Dad's voice echoed in the empty room. Mom turned, beaming.
"I guess you know what I think," she said. "And I haven't even seen the whole house. I guess the real question is, what do you think?"
"Let's ask Anya, because I'm pretty well sold. Anya?" He said. Mom and Dad both turned toward me. I don't think my opinion mattered much.
"What about the neighborhood?" I asked weakly, twirling my curly brown hair around one finger.
"The neighborhood is on the way up," a voice said from the other room. A middle-aged blonde woman in a velvety red suit stepped into the room. "Hello," she stepped forward to shake my mom's hand, "I'm Mrs. Jenkins. Sounds like you and your husband had some good timing today! I'm the realtor in charge of this house."
"Nice to meet you," my mom said. "This is my daughter, Anya. She's sixteen."
"Hello," she breathed, and stepped forward to shake my hand. I pretended I was intrigued by the chandelier to avoid her. She smelled like the house, musty and old. "I suppose you'd like to see the rest of the house," she said, leading my parents behind the staircase. Right this way." I stayed in the large front room. I didn't see any reason to explore the rest of the house. I knew that Mom and Dad were hooked. I'd see it when we moved in.
We closed at the house on moving day. Mrs. Jenkins stayed even after Mom and Dad signed the papers to see where we were going to put our furniture, and even helped us move in a few boxes. I thought it was weird, but Mom and Dad constantly talked about what a nice woman she was. I was in a rotten mood. I wanted a bigger house, but I also wanted to live somewhere safe. In a place that didn't make me uncomfortable the way this one did. I tried to imagine sleeping soundly in a room somewhere in this musty old mansion, but it just made me shiver.
"Come on, Anya. I'll show you the kitchen." We passed under the grand staircase, and to my surprise, the house ended. I thought it extended far beyond the front room, but we were standing in a small foyer, with a small enclosed staircase to the right and the back door right before us.
"I thought there was…more…back here," I said, looking out the door. It looked as if there were wings on each side of the house. We were a full story off the ground.
"There are rooms on the left and right. And I'm sure you've noticed we have to build a deck back here. There aren't any steps under the outside door. Now watch your step."
"The kitchen's down here?" I asked incredulously. I'd never heard of a kitchen in the basement.
"Kind of inconvenient, but we'll manage. It needs to be redone, anyway."
She wasn't kidding. The basement kitchen was in a complete state of disrepair, and apparently made very cheaply. The floor was covered in faux brick linoleum, and the cabinets were obviously made from particleboard covered in wood grain contact paper. The doors and drawers were all askance, some lying on the floor. And a horrible, obnoxious noise was coming from the windows, which were at ground level. I looked out and saw a house directly behind ours. Thirty people, men, women, and children, were gathered in the driveway of the house. The adults were sitting on lawn chairs, watching the children dance in a circle. A car idled on the lawn, doors open as the radio blared some sort of Mexican music.
"Part of the sacrifice we're making to live in such an unbelievable house," Mom said, shrugging.
I peered out the window. None of the dancing children were smiling.
"Anya," Mom called. She was standing in a narrow hallway off the kitchen. "This is the service kitchen. I guess the kitchen you're in now was just a kitchen for looks. Like when you have company, you can make it look like you made all their food right there. This is where the maid really did the cooking."
The room was humming. "What the…" There were about five machines, all plugged in. They looked something like microwaves, and were all blinking digital letters that read "POPCORN."
"Strange, isn't it?" Mom asked. "I think we're going to take all these things out and combine the service kitchen and the show kitchen to make one nice big one."
"But…why did they leave these…these things? What are they?"
Mom shrugged. "Microwaves?"
They weren't microwaves. They were something else, with a microwave façade. The mildew smell was completely absent in this room, but that strange underlying smell that pervaded the whole house was fully present. "And why are they still running in this house that's so rundown? They can't fix the broken windows but they can keep these machines running? It's been a year, Mom, since you've known this house was up for sale, and you don't know how long it was up for sale before that…"
"Five years," she interrupted.
"OK, well, who's been keeping this room clean?" It was impeccably clean. All the surfaces were white and spotless. The smell was making me feel nauseated. I turned to leave the room and was shocked to find Mrs. Jenkins, standing so close behind me her nose was nearly touching mine.
"The previous owners chose to pay for electrical service to this room all these years," she said. "No one chose to tell me why. And, little girl," she said coldly, poking a finger into my shoulder blade, "those ARE microwaves."
"I didn't say they weren't. I just asked what they were," I replied. She narrowed her heavily lined eyes at me. She was lying about the machines, and I could tell she knew I did not believe her. And in the kitchen, a phone rang.
Who is on the phone? Who would be calling on the day Anya and her parents move into the house, anyway? And what is the deal with those fake microwaves? Guess you'll have to come back to read the conclusion of this nightmare.