About a year ago we moved into a very large, very old house. This house is both beautiful and frustrating, because the rooms are all odd shapes and sizes. It was built by a well-known local architect around 1894 and has a second set of stairs for the servant’s quarters, a.k.a. my writing room. These stairs come in handy for slipping down quietly to get another cup of coffee without being noticed and having my train of thought derailed.
There are seven bedrooms, of which we use essentially one. It’s a beast to heat with all those rooms and 12 foot ceilings. It’s too much house for us, we know this, but we fell in love with it and couldn’t wait to move in.
It was a love that wouldn’t last much past the first few nights. As most people are aware, old houses can be creepy. Old houses with multiple staircases and twisty turning hallways and three floors are definitely creepy. Old houses with a dark past that you weren’t made aware of until after moving in? Creep factor x 1000. Since moving in there have been… incidents. Things we can’t explain. Feelings we can’t shake.
It’s both exciting and downright disturbing. Exciting because as a longtime lover of all that is dark and mysterious this is the kind of house I’ve wanted to be in for a long time. The kind of house they make movies and write books about. Disturbing, because it’s an ENTIRELY different thing when you’re actually living in said house.
It’s inspiration on steroids for that supernatural thriller I’ve had at the back of my mind to write for years. Too much inspiration in fact– I creep myself out while jotting down ideas and notes. That book will have to wait until I’m slightly less inspired, I’m afraid.
This house will find its way into my work eventually. I’m certain.