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THE WINDOW (chap. 4) ... the great ghost story write off part 2Oct 26 '04 Write an essay on this topic.
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The Bottom Line HAPPY ALL HALLOWS EVE
CHAPTER FOUR Somewhere around 5:00PM, I left work and began my half-hour drive to pick up my boys. My friend, Joy, was a not-by-choice, stay-at-home mom. Years before, she’d been in an accident which left her unable to work. While she waited for the insurance settlement, her only means of income was a weekly disability check. Because of her circumstances, she readily agreed to take care of Ken and Jim while I worked. Joy’s son, Adam, was one year older than Ken and her daughter, Mia was nearly six months younger than Jim. Since the four got along wonderfully, it made our situations work out well for all concerned. I knew my kids were in good hands and Joy was able to earn a few extra dollars. After arriving at her house, Joy asked the usual question, partly out of curiosity but mostly out of concern, “So, how are things at home?” Joy was a good friend but refused to come into my home. I can still see the look on her face as she watched, in horror, while her cup of coffee slid slowly across the table and land with a crashing thud on the floor. Although I’d long gotten used to seeing things like this, I couldn’t blame her for her decision. As soon as I opened the door to my house, I knew something wasn’t right. I felt it. I looked around but couldn’t put my finger on what was wrong. My sons turned on the TV as I went in my room to change clothes. After work, I enjoyed the comforts of light-weight sweats and comfy slippers. Since this was laundry night, supper would be quick and easy. The boys liked pasta so I put a large, water-filled pot on the stove to boil. The thought of baked ziti smothered in marinara sauce and mozzarella cheese made my mouth water. My sons and I shared the quality time together as supper cooked. We talked about what they did all day. They excitedly showed me the crafts they made at Joy’s house and then told me of their plans made for the next day. Yes, this truly was our quality time. With dinner and bath time over, 8:00PM approached quickly. Bedtime for Ken and Jim was 8:30. They used this half hour for extra playtime as I washed the dishes. Once they were tucked in, I knew the time was at hand for the chore I’d grown to hate. As I began gathering the dirty laundry, I felt my breath catch in my throat as anxiety caused beads of sweat to form on my forehead. At least I didn’t have to worry about dirty diapers anymore. Ken and Jim were long past that stage, but the washer and dryer were still in that cold, damp, dark basement. Because they’d be the last to launder, I left the damp towels in the bathroom but began gathering the dirty clothes from my sons’ rooms. Then, I walked to mine. As I grabbed the doorknob, I felt as though someone, with all his might, punched me in the stomach. Suddenly, I had no air to breathe. I took a step back, grabbed my stomach to ease the pain and gasped. It only took a few seconds to recover but now I suspected where whatever wasn’t right, was. My room! If I thought my heart pounded before, never could it compare with what I felt then. The pounding in my chest was strong and violent – and it hurt! I could almost feel my heart crashing against the walls of my ribs. I began to hyperventilate from the magnitude of the force and pressure. The sweat now streamed from my face which I’m sure, paled to a deadly ashen color. I slowly turned the doorknob, reached my hand in and flicked the switch. I opened the door and looked around. Nothing! I saw absolutely nothing wrong. Was my imagination going spastic? Was I just over-worked and over-wrought? I shook my head thinking how stupid I might have looked if anyone had been around to see me. Yet, not seeing a catastrophe didn’t make me feel any easier, either. Something was definitely wrong. While I didn’t see it, I still felt it! I picked up my laundry and turned to leave when I saw it. Or rather, didn’t see it. Now I knew what happened. Well, sort of, anyway. Many years before, my grandmother gave me what is known in the Catholic Church, as a sick-call cross. It’s a cross-shaped box that holds two white altar candles, a while linen altar cloth and a bottle of Holy Water. The lid of this box is a Crucifix upon which is affixed the figure of Christ. The cross is made so that the Crucifix can slide out of the holding track and stand snuggly in a notch at the top of the base. It is used by priests when they are called to the home of someone too sick to attend Mass. The sick-call cross has a notch in the back so it can be hung on a wall when not is use. I kept mine about six inches above my light switch. Only now, it wasn’t there. It didn’t slide off the wall either. Since my room wasn’t that big, it didn’t take me long to find it. The cross was lying just under the foot of my bed, in the usual 60’s-style, multi-gold-colored, thick, shag carpet. The figure of Christ, severed neatly at the wrists and ankles, lay face down beside the cross. The crucifix, now minus the figure, was still on the cross. I removed it to assess the rest of the damage. The altar cloth was rolled in a tight and wrinkled ball and the candles were snapped in two, yet the bottle of Holy Water gave no hint of even the slightest crack. I didn’t need to guess how the cross ended half way across the room. What amazed me was the inconsistent damage. After picking up the pieces of my grandmother’s cross, I placed them reverently on my bed and stood up with new determination. I was about to take a stand. Whether or not I’d get knocked down remained to be seen. With the pretense of a confidence I really didn’t feel, I walked to the basement door. Taking a deep breath, I opened it, turned on the dim overhead light and walked halfway down the stairs. While holding the basket filled with dirty clothes, I crossed my fingers. Why? Who knows?! Maybe it gave me a sense of security, but whatever reason, my fingers were crossed. Silently, I said a small quick prayer, then in a loud, hopefully and confident-sounding voice, I said, "Look, I don’t know who or what you are or why you’re here but you’ve made it obvious that you are here and intend to stay. Well, we’re here, too and can’t afford to leave so let’s make a deal. If you promise to leave us alone, stop scaring us and not harm us, I’ll promise not to try and get rid of you.” I thought for sure who or whatever it was heard my heart pounding. Then, I added in a tone that I tried to make sound friendlier, “Since I don’t know your name, how about if I call you George? If you don’t like that name or prefer another, find a way to let me know. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll call you George.” The blood raced through my veins as my ears strained to hear the slightest sound. I didn’t know whether to hope for an answer or not but I didn’t wait to find one. Trying to fend off the smothering feeling of dread and emit a courage I didn’t truly feel, I stomped my way, one deliberate foot in front of the other, slowly and noisily up the stairs, turned off the light and closed the door. Still shaking violently with fear, I leaned against the basement door and breathed heavily. I also decided to wait until the next day to do the laundry. **********Happy Halloween***************** To read Chapters One, Two, and Three, just click the links. Chapter ONE Chapter TWO Chapter THREE  |
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