My Writer's Life | Tale 1 | The Forbidden House

The Forbidden House

My writer’s life began the day my curiosity enticed me to try sleuthing. I had to occupy myself somehow as an only child in the middle of nowhere rural Kansas.

When my mother was a child, my grandfather’s sister lived in a small house between and behind those two houses. My mother was to deliver her aunt’s meals, but never to venture past the front door. Insane Aunt Olive was kept there because my grandfather was still haunted by committing his mother to an asylum years before. However, her chasing my screaming mother into the backyard with a butcher knife, ended that! I’m sure it was flaming new on the town’s gossip express.

After hearing the story several times, I could no longer suppress my curiosity. Niggie’s dog food was just inside the door. He was my mother's childhood black collie mix. In this rural area, there was no doubt where the name originated. Later on, as I grew older and connected the dots, it was a name I refrained from mentioning.

On the pretense of filling the dog’s dish, I snuck inside. The cupboard held dishes, the counters had dust and cobwebs, and the linoleum was threadbare and buckled. I could envision a ghost with a knife waiting for me, but curiosity won.

The living room held an old sofa, chairs, lamps, end tables, and even untouched sofa pillows. To the right was the bed area. An antique iron bedstead sat next to the windows, a dingy yellowed chenille bedspread still covering the lumpy mattress. From across the room, a large wooden wardrobe ominously stared at me. I dared to peek in. No ghosts. Nothing but empty hangers.

Last was a tiny bathroom. I was gazing at a strange antique toilet when I almost fell through a gaping hole in the floor. Oh, yes. The reason I shouldn’t go inside—rotting floors. If I fell through, I would be stuck. Worse, my grandmother would find out. Not even a broken leg or two was greater than her wrath.

That paused my sleuthing for a few days, but the pause disappeared when she didn’t discover my treachery. My passion for snooping into historical events persists to this day.

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