This Old House

This old house has its typical creaks and groans. That is to be expected. Things settle, things sag, things succumb to the law of entropy. A board on the upper floor cries underfoot and is answered by a whisper, a wince from the basement. From peak to foundation, the old house knows itself. These are not ghosts, not hauntings, but cozy, well accustomed tenants, slow, tenuous, feeling their way, guided along by countertops and banisters and windowsills, precise in their uncertainty. All is well, where well means usual, and yet something is wrong, there is a haunting after all--for in the night, the windows fly open by themselves and let uncommon extremities in. The doors rattle, suddenly ajar, and icy toes intrude, clutching the entryway carpets. Rainwater puddles beneath the window sills and spreads like unstopped blood, and the hardwood floors swell and suck in the irremovable stain. And though the windows and doors be shut securely and locked, they are found open again, disobedient to human hand or effort, ignorant of prayer or supplication. These are violent, deliberate ghosts which want what they want and will have what they want, and what they want is the house itself, consummate, every board and stone, each nook and alcove, from the lively soil that preceded it to the preciously weathered chimney top. The windows fly open, the night comes in, the doors slam against wall and jamb and sharp-toed feet can be seen in the dust of snow the wind blows in. The house has its creaks and groans. Those are to be expected. But there is no house that welcomes or tolerates an intruder. Houses are built to keep the weather out. Hauntings are the reapers that seep in nonetheless.