The House on 4th Street

Chapter 4

The first few weeks in the old  Victorian house were a whirlwind of activity and adjustment. Boxes were piled high in every room, and the air was thick with the smell of fresh paint and cleaning supplies. My dad, always up for a challenge, had taken a brief leave from his job as a criminal investigator to oversee the initial renovations. His new position with the Hartville Police Department was set to start the following Monday, and he wanted to make sure we were somewhat settled before diving into his demanding role.

Early each morning, the sound of hammering, sawing, and occasional cursing echoed through the house as we tackled one project after another. My dad was focused on repairing the sagging porch, while my mom and I worked on stripping decades-old wallpaper in the living room. Despite the chaos, there was a sense of excitement. This was our chance to transform the house into a home, to breathe new life into its neglected corners.

By the third day, we were starting to see some progress. The porch no longer threatened to collapse underfoot, and the living room walls were nearly ready for a fresh coat of paint. Exhausted but satisfied, we decided to take a break and explore the town a bit more.

Hartville had a quaint, almost timeless quality to it. The town square was lined with charming shops and cafes, their facades adorned with vintage signage. Brick-paved streets wound through the heart of the town, leading to a central park where a historic gazebo stood surrounded by manicured gardens. The people of Hartville greeted us with warm smiles and friendly nods, their curiosity about the newcomers evident but polite.

That night, as we sat around the kitchen table eating takeout, my dad shared his excitement about his new job. "It's a bit different from the big city," he said between bites of pizza. "But Hartville has its own share of mysteries. It'll be good to get back into the swing of things."

"I'm sure you'll do great," my mom said, smiling. "And it'll be nice to have some stability for a change."

I nodded, feeling a mix of pride and unease. My dad's job was never easy, and the thought of him diving into new cases in a new town added to my worries. But I didn't voice my concerns; instead, I focused on the task at hand—making this house feel like home.

Later that night, as I lay in bed, I started to notice the strange things. It began with the sounds: faint footsteps echoing through the empty halls, the creak of floorboards where no one was walking, and the distant sound of a door closing softly. I told myself it was just the house settling, the usual noises of an old structure adjusting to new occupants. But there was something unnerving about it, something that set my nerves on edge.

The next morning, I mentioned the sounds to my parents over breakfast. My dad shrugged it off. "Old houses make noise, Luke. Or it's just Fluffy wandering around the house." He said gesturing to our dog. "It's probably nothing."

"Yeah, I'm sure you're right," I said, trying to convince myself as much as him.

But as the days went by, the strange occurrences continued. Shadows seemed to flicker in the corners of my vision, only to disappear when I turned to look. Objects would be in different places than where I remembered leaving them. Once, I found my bedroom door ajar even though I was certain I had closed it before going to bed.

On Friday evening, after a long day of sanding floors, I decided to take a break and explore the attic. It was a space we hadn't tackled yet, filled with old furniture, trunks, and forgotten memories.  Armed with a flashlight, I climbed the narrow stairs and pushed open the heavy wooden door.

The attic was musty and dimly lit by a single, dusty window. I carefully navigated the clutter, the beam of my flashlight cutting through the darkness. As I explored, I came across an old chest, its surface covered in a thick layer of dust. Curiosity piqued, I knelt down and opened it.