Be careful what you wish for. What goes up must come down. Or any other cliché. About this time a year ago I thought I had everything I longed for. All I could see was house, house, house. I was finally moving into my yellow Pippi house with a green roof that I had wished for for years. You find, you buy, you renovate, you move in. And that’s it, right? You’re set. Boy, was I wrong.
I don’t think I have ever been so scared than I was during the first months I lived in my house. I cried myself to sleep every single night. I finally had my dream, so what was there to cry about? The noises. Ohh, the noises. I couldn’t name all of them if I tried. Every sound was strange and new and terrifying. I moved in when there were still a couple of weeks’ reno left. And those weeks were strange but even though the evenings were scary I was comforted by the fact that the builder was coming back each morning. (The small joys in life, aye?)
Even though I had spiritually cleaned the house several times, I was convinced that I had ghosts. I heard the steps, the falls, the shuffling across the attic. The cat was acting strange. It didn’t help that the builder was joking about all the things he didn’t want to tell me about that had happened in the house during the months he was renovating. The storms made everything worse. It being an old farmhouse, the wind howled through the walls and ceilings, causing the house to move and crackle and sprinkle sawdust on the floor. Each night I thought I’d be dead by the morning. If not by killing via ghosts then by being horrified to death.
I locked myself into the bedroom and barricaded the door with the hoover during the first months. I was up a third of the night for the first six months, jolting awake at the smallest of sounds. (I only started sleeping through the night a little while ago.) I thought summer would bring some solace, it being light and all. When suddenly I started being woken up by a loud screeching noice coming from outside. I’d never heard anything like that. It was echoing across the small town sky back and forth. My smartest thought said: demons, that’s what it is, and I just have to get used to it, or move. Finally I figured out they were bats. I think. I hope. And some of them live in my attic. Great.
The only thing that soothed me during the night were the freight trains. Having grown up literally on the other side of the tracks I long for the way they rumble loudly as they pass through town and make the house sway and vibrate. It was familiar and I welcomed each one.
Even though it’s been a year I still abide by some rules. As in I don’t go to a particular part of the house when it’s dark and I always keep the lights on. Even though I’m surrounded by houses and neighbours, I am terrified to go outside alone in the dark. When the electricity went out during an autumn storm I woke up in a freezer rather than go to the fuse box. When I close the curtains at night I pretend to look away as surely(!) there are people squatting outside my windows looking in. It’s like the independent woman in me lives no more. I left her in the city. In the comforts of her flat and familiarity. So, here I sit, drinking gin and blasting 3 Doors Down, contemplating if I made the right choice.
I reckon moving to the country into a strange house is one strongpoint of a marriage I’d advocate for. Not living alone here would definitely be worth tying the knot. I’d even chop all the firewood and mow the grass for it. Oh, husband, where art thou?