October 30, 2009 09:32 am
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Elizabeth and Mesiak had been married for six years before they finally found their dream home.
After living in tiny apartments and rental houses, they were ready for a real home — one with a big backyard for their kids (who at this time were dogs, not people), a sizeable kitchen worthy of Elizabeth’s culinary talent and a bathroom that didn’t force you to put your feet in the shower to use the facilities.
The couple soon found a nearly 100-year-old home that, at 3,000 square feet, met all their requirements. But they had a concern. There seemed to be an extraordinary number of broken windows and several damaged upstairs doors.
The seller reassured them he’d broken the glass during renovations. The doors were simple wear-and-tear.
Undeterred, the couple decided to buy the house and make it their home.
After signing their lives away to the mortgage company, Liz (as her father was fond of calling her) and Mesiak took two weeks to get the house ready before they officially moved in. It needed it ... the house was last decorated about 1970.
So they painted. And painted. And painted.
All the while, Liz and Mesiak felt comfortable and safe. No ominous noises or odd sights.
The time soon came for the big move ... and their first night in the house.
It was quiet that first night. The silence was unnerving. An old house should creak and groan.
Liz and Mesiak put it off to having lived on a major thoroughfare for the last year.
The second night was the same. Liz turned on the ceiling fan to at least have some white noise.
By the third night, Liz and Mesiak had accepted the silence, even if it still kind of creeped them out.
Returning from work for night five, Liz hung up her coat as Mesiak went to the back of the house to let the dogs out for their evening constitutional.
Mesiak screaming Liz’s name broke the silence. She rushed back to the family room to find ...
***
This is where a former camp counselor of mine would have blown an air horn to scare us silly.
Unfortunately for me, this story doesn’t end with a deafening blast. This is where fiction melts into reality and I (taking the place of Liz) find the door to my new home kicked in. A quick search of the house revealed no one lurking about, but drawers were open in my bedroom and some portable electronics were missing. The mutts, valiant watchdogs that they are, were unharmed.
Home invasion is a peace-shattering fiend that leaves you sleeping with one eye open no matter how much you fortify your castle. It’s a violent intrusion of one’s personal space that’s scarier than any monster or slasher flick you’ll see.
And it gives a whole new meaning to fearing the things that go bump in the night.
Contact Heather Bremer at 640-4867 or heather.bremer@heraldbulletin.com.
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Heather Bremer