The dollhouse? He broke the fucking dollhouse too?
In my
early 20’s, I naively thought someone had to hit you to constitute abuse. I
didn’t know that breaking all of your shit was its own form of abuse. And
that’s what Bill did. He broke all of my shit. In an old, haunted house that we
lived in. (Well…survived in.)
He had
already smashed a television, a coffee table, chairs, windows…any object in
arm’s reach. He had given me a dollhouse for Christmas. I added pieces to it,
creating a make-believe happy home where there was none. Now just like our
miserable relationship, it too was in pieces.
As I
cleaned up the mess he made, the ghosts watched me. Sometimes the presence of a
ghost or two can be comforting, except in that house. Even though I despised
Bill at this point, I was always slightly relieved when he would
return. Ominous ghostly presence versus abusive boyfriend? Hmmm…sometimes
life offers you shitty choices.
To this
day, I dream of that place. I’m locked in and can’t get out. The house is
breathing and groaning as if it’s coming to life. I run down the stairs to
escape, but the steps never end. The walls move slowly inward in an attempt to
touch me. I usually wake up startled, sometimes screaming.
Perhaps
it’s a form of PTSD from that piss-poor relationship. Or perhaps that house
still remembers me and reaches out to me from time to time.
One night sleeping
next to Bill, I woke up out of a sound sleep. I slept on my arm and was shaking
out the pins and needles, hazy but awake. Then I felt something move toward my
bedside. A distinctly dark and cold presence. It stood above me for a moment
then seemed to bend down, near my face. I turned my head away from it, in weak
defense.
“Beth!” it
whispered aggressively, inches from my face.
I let out
an ear-piercing scream. Bill woke up and immediately began yelling.
“What the
fuck?!!”
“Someone is in this room! Turn on the
light!” I pleaded.
He did,
and of course (just like the movies), no one was there. I stayed awake the rest
of the night. After a brush with the supernatural, sleep didn’t seem remotely
possible.
The next
day, I felt like a zombie. I tried to tell my best friend Krissie what
happened. The voice, not quite male, not quite female. That harsh and sudden
whisper.
“You have
to get out, Beth. That house, that relationship,” she warned. “Your mind is
playing tricks on you.”
Sleeping
was difficult for the next few months. I’d wake in the middle of the night,
instantly terrified. When would it
return? Did it want to hurt me? Why couldn't it go after Bill?
The
relationship with Bill sickened. Fights escalated, police involved. When he
wasn’t home, I packed my boxes and bags and hid them in my closet. My escape
was forming though I had no clue where to go.
During my
last week there, I remained as Zen-like as possible, just biding my time. A
fight erupted nonetheless.
Slam. Boom. Things began flying. What was
there left to break, you fucking idiot?
“I know all
about the shit you have in your closet. You think I'm stupid?”
He headed
down the steps to the bedroom. His intention: destroy the contents of my closet
that including a newly purchased stereo and my mom’s jewelry box.
I grabbed
a large knife from the kitchen and followed him downstairs to the bedroom.
“Touch
that closet door and I’ll kill you.” I hissed, possessed.
I raised
the knife over my head to reinforce the point. Then he laughed at me. This was
not the thing to do. I charged him, screaming banshee style. He grabbed a large
pillow to protect himself. I stabbed at it repeatedly.
He peeked
over the pillow at one point. The look on his face will stay with me until my final
day. He was terrified, white as a
ghost. Good, good! For once, I had become the terror of the
house. Even the ghosts ran for cover.
The police
carted us off. Since I had called about him in the past, I was permitted to
place a restraining order on him. He moved out and I was left in the house
alone. My bags were packed and out in the open. I was ready to go. I had so
little left to take with me. It had all been broken. But I was taking me with me. Thankfully.
During one
of the last nights there, I woke up to go the bathroom. When I returned, I
hurried under the covers. But before I could fall asleep, that dark presence
was by my side once again. The voice wasn’t as distinct as the first time.
It
whispered hurriedly to me:
“Beth.
Hi.”
I didn’t
scream this time. I didn’t lie awake frightened all night. This entity knew I
was scared, I believe. It said something as quickly as possible that would
convey some form of friendliness. Hi.
A ghost said hi to me!
In a few
days, I said goodbye to that house and one of the stormiest and sickest phases
of my life…though I don’t know if that house has ever completely let me go.
