My parents bought an old house built in the late 1800′s. Gladys, an old women who lived on our block, used to tell us stories of two sisters who used to live in the house and water the three huge oak trees in the front yard. The sisters would walk with pales down to the creek a few blocks away and carry them back, their long dresses dragging in the mud, to bring the trees pales of water.
I loved thinking about those sisters. It made things seem more mysterious, darker, stranger.
When I was young, maybe 7 or 8, my parents replaced a door by the staircase revealing writings on the wall. Some children who had lived in the house before had written their names and various words that I can’t remember now. That too made the house seem darker. Full of spirits. I never felt the house was haunted, just full of history. It made my mind spin with possibilities.
