Devil House

Devil House

246 words



We called it the devil house.  No one had lived there for 30 years.  The grass reached the top of the once-white picket fence. Paint residue suggested  yellow walls with pine green trim. The shutters dangled from a hinge.  The glass remaining in the windows would fit in a matchbox.

The school bus stop was a block past the relic.  Before we raced past, we exhaled three times, inhaled deeply, and chanted, “Scaryboo, scaryboo, scaryboo, aboo, aboo!”  We were sure that would keep any monsters away.

I walked to the bus with my neighbors Jimmy Styles, Marady Swenson, and Marc Daniels. We were second graders at Miller Elementary School.  My sister Marla, a fifth grader, was too cool to walk with us.

“You’re a scaredy cat,” Marla taunted me.

“Am not,” I retorted.

“Are too.  You’re scared of a stupid house that can’t hurt anyone.”

“It’s the devil house.  Mobsters live there.  The spiders eat cats.  People who go in are never seen again.”

“Name one.” Marla jeered.

“Billy Noel chased a baseball into the yard.  No one has seen him since.”

“Says who?”

“Bobby Jones.” I glared.

“Bobby Jones? The seventh grader?  He lies to scare you kids.” She snorted.

We moved to Cleveland the next year.  I forgot about the devil house until I took a teaching position at Miller School.

I stopped by the old house to find a peach and blue craftsman with well manicured lawn and a spit rail fence.