Page 32 of Scaredy Cat
Who knows what else they could do while I’m completely unaware?
No. If that were the case, I’d know. There would be other signs. If someonehadbroken in, I doubt that all they’d do would be plug in my power bank like a helpful gremlin. With that thought, I throw my car into reverse before checking my mirror to make sure Mrs. Elmore isn’t in the street like an unfortunate bowling pin.
Thankfully, she hasn’t chosen today to wander around, doing her best impression of the unfriendly neighborhood poltergeist. I pull out slowly anyway, just in case, and glance at her window to do my usual proof-of-life check. Sure enough she’s there, facing the road, as if we get enough cars for it to be interesting. She waves at me and I wave back, a false smile on my face while I fumble to get my car into drive as if this is the first time I’ve ever driven.
I have to get it together, I chastise myself silently while driving down our back road. I can’t go the rest of tonight thinking about a made up scenario that I’m freaking myself out with.
The drive toMill Houseisn’t really that long, though I make it longer by going out of my way for coffee that I deserve in these trying times. Once I’m armed with a large pumpkin spice iced latte with two extra shots and a breakfast wrap, I switch from my lofi music to the podcast I downloaded, even though I know the story ofMill Houseby heart.
If anything, the podcast only reenforces just howwellI know the story. The girl who does it is fun to listen to, though, and recounts the facts about it, or her interpretation of them, in her rich, animated tone which make it seem like the listener is part of the conversation.
“So, as I was saying. Jeremy Lane bought the house in the seventies, right? And honestly, it feels like a bit of an Amityville situation. After the last family disappeared, he got the house at a crazy low price, which is saying something since the place is in Illinois and they’ve basically been giving houses away to try to improve their economy for a while now.”
She’s not wrong, but I snort at the brutal honesty anyway. Too bad their property tax rates are quite literally disgusting as hell, or I would’ve looked into buying a house there instead of in one of the smallest towns in Indiana.
The sun sets as I drive, dipping more quickly now than it would’ve a few weeks ago. The light is just barely peeking over the trees by the time I turn onto the gravel road that will take me back to the rear of the vast property. I’m not worried tonight, and the lack of anxiety is a weight off my shoulders. There’s no way for my stalker to show up here, not when I haven’t posted on my blog about where I’ll be going. Sometimes, I like to keep my content a surprise, so my followers wake up to something new.
Mill House had been a last minute decision, sure, but one I don’t regret making. Without the crowds of normal haunts, the expectations, the other people, and people asking me about other haunts, I get to focus on the part of my job that is lower stress than the rest.
Besides, I like adventure, and walking around a place that supposedly claimed three families thanks to the ‘demons’ feels like it could be interesting content to break up my more traditional autumn posts stuff.
“Anyway, Jeremy and his family lasted about three months, but those three months were literal hell for them. Jeremy slowly went mad, started talking about the voices in the walls and the woods. Said that they were making him crazy and he couldn’t get them to leave him alone.”
“And then he cut off his own ears,” I mutter with a sigh, just before she says it. It didn’t help, of course. Neither had shoving ice picks into his ear dreams.
“After a few weeks, when no one had heard from them, the cops finally decided to, you know, do their jobs. It only took nine people calling them.”The podcaster’s voice is dry and unamused, but mine would be too if I were talking about Mill House.
Maybe if the cops had gotten there sooner, if they checked after the first two or three calls instead of waitingweeks,Jeremy’s family would’ve still been alive. At the very least, theymight’ve been able to catch Jeremy before he walked out of the house and disappeared into the woods, never to be seen or heard from again.
I swipe my backpack from the passenger seat along with my phone, which I shove into my pocket. Once I’ve checked to make sure I have everything, it only takes me a few seconds to get out and settle my backpack over my shoulders. Glancing up, I’m glad to see that next week’s rain is still far enough away that I don’t have to worry about it ruining any of the shots I want to get while I’m here. Really, if I can get a few now, they don’t all have to be terrifying. With the way the sunlight is peeking through the trees to shine on the barn and the house, I immediately wrestle my phone out of my pocket to take a few pictures.
It’s crazy how beautiful any place can be, no matter its history. I’d never know that so many people died here if I hadn’t heard the stories so many times before. The silence is a little eerie, the only sounds coming from a few brave birds that haven’t quite made it to bed yet, and the first sounds of crickets in the autumn night. Thankfully, the mosquitoes have retired for the year, so I don’t hear their persistent buzzing in my ears or feel the sometimes-imagined tickle of them on my skin.
With my phone, I find as many ways to take pictures of the outside of the property as I can before the sun sets any further. While I want part of this to be creepy, sure, I also want it to be hauntingly pretty, to show my followers that there’s something more here than death.
Nature has taken back the house itself, with ivy winding up the columns and reaching toward the second-floor windows. The glass is long gone, as is the front door, but somehow the porch is mostly in one piece and the columns are unbroken.
The barn is a different story, unfortunately. Having been made of wood, the age-greyed boards are broken in spots, the walls are sagging in on themselves and the roof is half-collapsed.The owner of the property assured me that it’s actually sturdier than it looks, though she’d also sent over a waiver for me to sign so I can’t sue her just in case something collapses on me.
Not that I would.
My bad decisions and questionable life choices are my responsibility and mine alone. I stand between the house and the barn for a few moments, trying to decide where I want to go first. While Mill House is famous for having the creepy murder basement where there’s supposedly a secret room full of demons, that’s been photographed to hell and, in my opinion, the mystery and allure of it is all gone. But I’ve barely seen any pictures of the barn before.
Fuck it.
It’s not like I’m trying to write something to be used as an analysis of what happened. This is just about documenting what I find interesting here, and the atmosphere. For good measure, though, I jog up the porch steps and carefully walk inside the house, taking a few minutes to take some quick photos of the inside, including the stairs down to the basement with the worn handrail and shattered light fixture.
By the time I’m back outside, there’s only a touch of light still illuminating the property from the sun between the oak trees. I have to squint to see anything, and before I’ve taken two steps off the porch, I decide it’s time for at least one flashlight. While I brought two for dual wielding action, I would like to keep one hand free to fend off ghosts or take pictures with my phone.
With the bright white LED light flooding the ground in front of me, it’s easy to make my way across the yard. It really is a pretty property, especially now that the crickets are in full song and there’s nothing else to draw focus. No hum of electricity, no yelling. No cars in the distance, or?—
Rustling in the trees makes me stop, and I whirl around with my flashlight pointed toward the woods like a laser beam. Myheart skips a beat in my chest while I survey the trees, even though I already know I’m just being jumpy over nothing.
There’s no one else here except me. There’s no one in the woods, in the house, or in the barn.
I’m alone with the ghosts of years past, and whatever blood still stains this place, seeped between the cracks so deep no one will ever see it.
“You’re fine, Persy,” I breathe, my hand tightening on the light. Still, I allow myself to do one more sweep along the woods, finding nothing just like I expect. “Houses make noises. Woods make noises.” I hate having to pep talk myself, and I hate how my stalker existing in other parts of my life is making me so on edge here.
