The Nightmare House

You do have a story inside you; it lies articulate and waiting to be written — behind your silence and your suffering. ― Anne Rice (October 4, 1941 – December 11, 2021)

The following excerpts are from journal entries from the late 1990s-early 2000s.

Note: Eli denies any unusual disturbances in the house on Adams while we resided there. However, at the time, he was witness to the events that unfolded. 

Jasin and I moved into the house on Adams a week after signing the papers. The house was adorable. I had the back room, with the bricked-up old fireplace, wooden floors, and French windows. A hall with a built-in bookshelf in the bathroom, living room, and kitchen. All the windows and even the Red Door had bars on them. 

In the back of the house, there was a small patio with a patch of land with overgrown weeds. At the time, I was determined to plant flowers and turn them into a flourishing garden. To my dismay, everything I grew died within a few weeks. 

We had a small shed with a washer and dryer with a low-hanging roof. I would often climb up on the top for sanctuary when I desired privacy. Thus, I discovered the little window nailed shut, leading to the attic, with no door. 

When we moved in, there were holes in the floors. We soon discovered that roaches seeped out of the cracks in the tiles of the bathroom walls. When one flipped the switch in the kitchen, the garbage disposal would automatically turn on. If one turned the light off in the living room, all the electricity in the front half of the house would go dark. Light sockets hung from live wires in the walls, and the air conditioner never seemed to work quite right. This last one is a death wish on a summer afternoon in New Orleans. Our rent was $525 a month. 

My bedroom at Adams Street

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