Neverland

one

December 7, 2014

The house is probably the oldest on the block. The floors don't creek, they screech.  They cry as if the wood they are made of is alive and every shoe that walks on them is spiked with metal spears.  There is an awful draft, especially in the upstairs, which is good I guess considering that is where we tend to sleep.  Sarcasm intended.

Also, the large casement window in my room constantly opens in the night, letting in the winter air and modulating the climate of the space to replicate that of the blustery arctic tundra.  I awoke one night so cold, that I could see the puffs of my own white breath linger in the darkness above my head.  I don't think I have actually been able to feel the tip of my nose since that night. Other than those minor flaws, the house is nice I suppose, quaint. It has that old charm people tend to like.

I found an old tattered book the first day we moved here. It was placed on the windowsill in my bedroom. Strangely enough it is completely blank, lacking even a title on its scarlet cover. However, it looks to have been heavily used.  The pages are splattered with what looks and smells like coffee stains and marked with brown, almost  black thumbprints in the corners.  And some of those corners are creased over as if they had once previously reserved the page, but there are no words.  I stare and stare, but they never appear.

It is literally only held together by a few yellowed and frayed strings and I wouldn't doubt if it just disintegrated into dust the next time I try to carefully flip through it.  So I decided to leave the book in the sill. For some reason, it seems like it was purposefully left there.

Andover is much more clustered than Hampshire, but New England is still New England to me. Massachusetts is not all that different from Connecticut. My parents love it here so far and claim Andover will be this new and refreshing start to life.  I really hope that sentiment holds true.  God or whoever knows that we need it too.

Tomorrow is Leo's birthday. We will be driving to Plymouth as we always do...

"Waverly?"

I quickly snapped my journal shut and slid it under my quilt as if I had something to hide.

"Yes?"

"You are still up? It's nearly midnight." My always anxious mother Jane stood with her arms folded in the large doorway.  She was wearing a thin floral robe which was probably doing little to keep her petite frame warm.  White night cream underlined her tired eyes like war paint and stray blonde curls fell lazily along the sides of her face.  She kinda looked like a beautiful little fairy or something.

"So?" I said, swallowing a persistent yawn. 

"We have an early morning tomorrow," she reminded me and widened her eyes as she did whenever she was trying to be stern with me.  "You do remember what tomorrow is, right?"  Of course I knew what tomorrow was.

I ignored her question and glanced around my new spacious room. It was easily twice the size of my old one, but also twice as decrepit.  The towering walls were covered with this soft yellow wallpaper that pealed in certain spots and emitted a musty smell.  Scratches and scuffs scored into the dull hardwood floors, gathering more so in a cluster near the lone window.  The lack of central lighting and modern heating left the room dim, raw, and a bit too medieval for my taste.

"I think this place is haunted," I thought aloud.  

"It's not haunted," she said, "Now get to sleep."

"Alright," I sighed, "but when you have to call Father Malcolm to hold an exorcism in this very room in order to release the tortured soul that attempts to claim my body as its own, you will wish you'd have listened to me."