Hey there, internet! Long time, no blog.
Life has been…interesting to say the least. You know that romance novel cliche where (usually after a romantic falling out) the heroine either inherits or buys a fixer-upper house? I am now living that cliche.
Betrayed by someone who couldn’t hold to their marriage vows, our intrepid author (me) has purchased a 91-year-old bungalow in need of some lovin’. And when I say some, I mean a lot…like a whole lot.
The person who lived here was a bit of a hoarder and left many, many items behind both inside and in the yard. I’m literally afraid to mow the backyard for fear of hitting some random bit of junk I missed while attempting to clean it up.
One thing no one tells you about working on old houses is how disgusting it can be. One of my earlier projects was the back room. In order to use this room, I had to rip out pee-saturated carpet and padding. It was secured to the floor very well by what must’ve been every molecule of adhesive in the tri-state area. That was pretty awesome.
I also didn’t have a fully functional bathroom for a while. Advice: if you look at an older house, be sure to test the toilets for wobbliness. If they try to tip over, that means someone installed a pvc toilet flange OVER a cast iron flange. If you buy said house and do no want tipsy toilets, you might find yourself paying a plumber a bunch of dollars to remove it or you might find yourself spending 4 hours sitting on a bathroom floor with a drill, a hammer, and a chisel busting out lead welding and sending 2 or 3 drill bits into the great beyond.
I also had to hacksaw a water line off a valve to install my shiny, new washer. That was terrifying.
In non-maintenance news, my son and I are reasonably sure the house is a tad haunted.
The first indication came from a beeping sound that started while I was alone in the house one day. After walking both through and around the sound, I finally tracked the sound to the backyard and then to a trash bag. I dumped the trash out.
A smoke alarm was screaming at me from the trash, a smoke alarm I definitely do NOT remember throwing away. I asked the boy if he threw a smoke alarm away. He did not.
At first, I was annoyed because I thought the ghost (if one is/was present) was messing with me. Upon further investigation, I discovered the house had zero functional smoke alarms. If this was the work of a ghost, he was warning us.
Why do I think the ghost is male? The lady I bought the house from mentioned that her partner died. I got the impression it was sudden.
I found this note in a window in the back room.
I wonder if he ever saw it.
so his name (or nickname) was Andy, possibly Andrew? I’m looking into it. I might need to purchase a ouija board and see if I can ask.
Another couple of things. The other night, my son woke me up to ask if I knocked at his room. I had not. That same night, something plucked a few strings on the banjo that hangs on his wall.
Am I scared? No. If the ghost were malevolent, I probably would be, but I don’t think he is.
So here I sit, newly-restructured life, an endless to-do list of repairs and maintenance, and possibly a ghost friend. I’ll start writing again soon once I whittle down my house repair list a bit.
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