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@ 27.225 MHz: WallStones; Isolate House
[In memory of Shirley Jackson, Robert Aickman, and
Sarban (the pen name of Ambassador John W. Wall,
Companion of the Most Distinguished Order of
Saint Michael and Saint George; and for my
friend, Pungus]
You have long known, and accepted, that most
people---locally---believe that the naming of
houses is an affectation, a dwindling customs from an
era that believed itself elegant and was, sadly,
lacking in both efficiency and empathy. Isolate
House, high on the ridge, and always darkening
even in summer daylight, can be seen from the
interstate highway; though most travelers on that
route, and that the rate of speed it allows, neither
look upon nor consider it; and those of the living who
are, geographically, its neighbors are too frightened to
look upon or consider it. No one understands the
reason for the appearance it presents (or, some
believe, deliberately maintains)---except to say, in
their quaint idiom, that it is "not quite right; just
"not quite right." Somethings, that no one wants to
imagine, dwell in the cobwebbed rooms of Isolate
House, or shamble through its twisted corridors.
Not even the interstate transients---bums and
hobos, addicts and whores; and those whose lives the
nation's economy has thoroughly shredded, again---
will not seek shelter, from even the worst of
rainstorms or sleetfalls, within the talls of Isolate
House. Residents of the area believe that it
ought to be demolished or burned; but none are
willing to do so, fearing to unleash or antagonize
whatever now makes, or make, a dwelling there.
Out for a drive, and passing near the execrabal
site, you nudge your companion. "Look," you
tell her, pointing upward, a little flesh still
clinging to your forefinger's bones. "Yes," she
replies, turning what is left of her face toward the
single, illuminated window. "Guess we forgot to
"turn the lights out, again," she mutters through
rotted lips, the sound of her words is a hideous
wheeze from within her decomposing throat.
Starward
Quite a tale
Do the dead know they are gone? Especially when we, ourselves, aren't even sure if they aren't still there. A capturing haunting.
Your introduction of this house and the way that certain ones locally take on a certain cultural significance (in one manner or another) reminds me of a town not terribly far from my neck of the woods, known as Red House. It was so-named, of course, due to a Red House that greeted eyes at the split in the "highway" of the era, letting an intending visitor know they had reached their exit. The house no longer exists, but someone did a low budget short documentary on it, and found some artifacts at the site.
Thank you. You have piqued
Thank you. You have piqued my curiosity: what kind of artifacts were found on that site?
The house I described in this poem actually exists on a high ridge above the interstate highway that I have traveled, from time to time, to visit my old college. Several times, my daughter, then a teenager, accompanied me in the evenings, and when we passed that house both of us found it disturbing. Once, and just one, we saw one window illuminated, but, on all other times it was entirely dark. Neither of us cared to find out more about it.
In writing about it, I am well aware that Shirley Jackson's Haunting Of Hill House is still the final word, in prose, on desciptions of haunted houses; with, in my opinion, a very close second being Bly House in Henry James' tale, Turn Of The Screw. And the horror writer Sarban (mentioned in the poem's dedication) was very good about describing haunted landscapes. So I thought I would try my own in a poem.
Thank you so much for visiting the poem, and commenting.
Starward
You're welcome - my pleasure, as ever
While nothing exotic or startling was found at the site, but numerous items from the time (I recall pans, candlestick holders, dishes) - items that would probably be far more exciting to find if it were a thousand years down the road and all of these cultural items were by gone or completely different (I suppose the candlestick holders might already qualify), but none the less cool to uncover. The documentarian also found some of the structure, I believe the most evident being parts of the chimney/hearth.
You did a fine job in your tribute, and just the same your piece stands on it's own. I do love Shirley Jackson's writing style, and have enjoyed some talented voices retelling Haunting of Hill House. Turn of the Screw is also a fine work, and probably contains one of the best Horror titles created. I am unfamiliar with Sarban - which of his related works would you recommend as a start?
Thank you for the reply, and
Thank you for the reply, and for the information about the relics found at Red House. I do appreciate your willingness to follow up. As for Sarban, I began with his collection of short stories, Ringstones. The tale in that collection to start with is called "A Christmas Story." It happens to be online as well, and I am sending you the link by PM. Then I would recommend Sarban's alternate history novella, The Sound Of His Horn---which depicts a corner of the Third Reich, a century or so after Adolf Hitler.
Starward
You're welcome - I always
You're welcome - I always enjoy conversing about the seeming little things that are big in some corner of the map. They are part of what makes our lives unique, but also feeds the conversation that intertwines them. Great camp fire material, as well ; )
Thanks for the head start with Sarban's work. I'll check out the link you sent me. Greatly appreciated!