Hell House

Maybe it’s as a result of seeing “Poltergeist”, but I believe that houses can have good, bad or even evil “vibes”.
And the one next to me, an otherwise normal-looking full Cape, has GOT to have a portal to Hell in one of its closets.


I only know about 5 years of the history of the people who have lived there – 3 different “sets” in that short a time – but it’s a history of some real doozies.
The first “set” were renters, a collection of unrelated adults who terrorized the neighborhood with their loud parties. Their welcome “gift” to me when I moved here was a wrecked mailbox, courtesy of one of their DUI visitors.
The second “set” were a couple and their two “kids”, one a socially inept adult son and the other a perpetually barking Rottweiler so surly that the last time I saw it – fortunately, behind a partially opened window in their car – it was baring its ugly teeth and snarling as if it couldn’t wait to make lunch of my jugular.
I had hopes for the most recent “set”, a seemingly normal family of four, including two boys ages 5 and 11.
Unfortunately, there have been numerous warning signs that things weren’t quite right with these folks, either.
Like a story (uh-huh) that they sold their old house for about $100,000 below market value as a “favor” to friends.
Like numerous tales of persecution by everyone from the dog officer, a gentle woman who runs a shelter for unwanted animals, to at least two sets of elementary school teachers who allegedly can’t keep track of their kids, to another neighbor who has lived peaceably in this community for about 10 years, to a kindly ER doctor at a respected local hospital – you get the point.
I should know better, but I was willing to give my Neighbor From Hell (NFH) the benefit of the doubt.
Then earlier tonight, I finally realized that the evil spirit of the house next door has raised its ugly head again.
My oldest grandson, age 9, was here for an overnight, and he played with the NFH’s children, without incident, both last evening and this morning.
Late this afternoon, though, he came in from playing outside, disturbed because another local boy, a youngster with a history of behavioral problems, was picking on him.
Hearing nothing from any adult about this, I assumed it was normal boy roughhousing, and didn’t give it much more thought. My grandson is not a particularly physical kid – he doesn’t even like hugs much – so I wasn’t surprised that he’d be irritated by horseplay.
Imagine my shock, then, when the NFH appeared at my door about 2 hours later, well after my grandson had gone back home, looking for him to tell her where he’d “thrown” her decorative pumpkins and gourds. Which her husband claimed he saw him “destroy”. Along with hurling other objects like a rake (or maybe it was a shovel) handle.
I invited the neighbor in; she refused. I offered to compensate for the “damage” – if in fact my grandson caused it – and she refused that, too.
I called my son to get his help with figuring out where the missing items might be. My son is a no-nonsense father and a disciplinarian. After some investigation, his conclusion was that my “grand” was telling the truth and if anything was lost or damaged, it wasn’t his doing.
I called NFH back. She put me on speakerphone (!), and repeated her story about how she hadn’t actually seen this vandalism herself, but her husband had. And having seen my grandson allegedly throw things, couldn’t recall exactly where they were thrown.
She also sanctimoniously lectured me about how “foul language and destruction of property are not allowed in this house”.
I am so furious that I could at this moment crack her self-righteous skull. It’s one thing to spin self-serving paranoid fantasies about adults, and quite another to render same about a little boy.
As regular readers of this blog know, I try to be as good on the inside as I am ugly on the outside, compensation for what I interpret as Lessons to be Learned for misbehavior in a former life.
In this spirit, I am trying hard to find tolerance for what is obviously illness on these people’s part, exacerbated by a history of bad vibes in the house which they unfortunately bought.
And this blog is in the way of a public apology to my grandson for ever doubting him even for an instant and for exposing him to people who are, quite obviously, seriously whacka-whacka.
It is also an apology to my son for asking HIM to spend even 5 minutes on investigating yet another of the NFH’s adventures in hallucinatory paranoia.
And I really hope that the Neighbors From Hell read this (they won’t). And I hope they – both adults and maybe even both kids – get help with their mental problems.
And maybe the next time the house next door is sold, I’ll organize a collection to hire an exorcist.