Page 10 of Play Nice

The True Story of a Suburban Haunting

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New Beginnings

I bought the house sight unseen. I needed a place to live, for my three daughters to live, that was close enough to their father, my ex-husband, who had recently purchased an ostentatious brick Colonial in a wealthy town in a notoriously wealthy county.

Coming off the divorce, I wasn’t in the best financial position. So it goes. Beggars can’t be choosers.

The house had belonged to an elderly couple who had already moved to a retirement community in Florida.

Though I’d come to learn that the couple, who had built the house in 1972, had never lived there full-time.

Their story is not mine to tell, but I will say this.

Shortly after moving in, a series of family tragedies prevented them from spending more than a few months at a time in the house.

Why they waited thirty-plus years to sell it is a question for them, though I suspect you’ll be able to intuit the answer by the end of this book.

Dramatic license. He had a secret second family that she found out about when his mistress showed up at the door late one night.

She moved in with her mother, he moved in with his other family.

They reconciled several times but couldn’t make it stick, not until after his mistress’s funeral.

As far as I know, they lived happily ever after in Florida.

At least as happy as two people can be when one betrayed the other.

Maybe she just wanted to be around to watch him die.

The house was priced very low, but that didn’t raise any suspicion on my part because I was told by my agent that it wasn’t in the best condition. It passed inspection, I could afford it, the girls wouldn’t have to change schools, and I could move in right away.

I packed up the home I’d made with my ex-husband and my daughters, the home I’d once hoped would hold a happy future, and moved into Edgewood Drive piecemeal, making so many trips I lost track.

My first impression of the house was that it was in a nice neighborhood. Perfect for trick-or-treating, for making friends with neighbors. I was struck by the color of the house—an intense red—and how different it was from the other houses in the neighborhood. More angular. Harsher.

It was surrounded by woods, and I worried about ticks.

Inside was dated, a little musty, the layout a bit odd, but overall I thought it would work. A big open living area, a small kitchen. The appliances were old, but I was never much of a cook, so it didn’t bother me. Four bedrooms, two full baths. A split-level.

There were two bedrooms upstairs and two downstairs, and they were awkwardly sized.

One big, one tiny on each floor. I decided I’d let the girls pick their own rooms. I decided it was going to be a new beginning for all of us.

A house full of women. A safe place for us to be.

I’d paint it pink. It’d smell like vanilla and nail polish remover. It’d be ours.

My fantasy didn’t last long.

I hired two college-aged kids with a van to help move the bigger pieces of furniture. One of them lived down the street. He was polite, but I couldn’t help noticing he was acting strange. He seemed anxious. His eyes darting around, his skin going pale.

I overheard the other teasing him, using language I won’t repeat here.

“Whatever, man,” he responded. “I hate this house.”

When they were done, I thanked them and paid them their fifty bucks each. The kid who lived down the street started to walk home, and I called out his name.

“Why do you hate the house?” I asked him.

He stuttered.

“It’s okay. You can tell me,” I said.

“Just stupid kid stuff,” he said, shaking his head. “Empty house at the end of the street.”

It wasn’t an answer, but I nodded and thanked him again, and he picked up his pace.

I went inside and unpacked for a while, then poured myself a glass of wine and put on a record. Little Queen by Heart. My girls and I loved Heart. I’d play their favorite music when I missed them, when they were at their dad’s.

You might not realize, but I was very conscious about playing you and Daffy and Leeds music by female singers and musicians. I wanted you to know you could be rock stars, or whatever you wanted to be.

But the record kept skipping. It had never done that before.

I was beside myself, worried my record player had been damaged in transport.

I couldn’t afford another. I got up to look at it.

I put on a different record, I forget which one, and it did the same thing.

It would start to skip, and then make this noise.

Almost a hissing. Like a hot kettle with something to say, trying to form words out of steam.

It was utterly bizarre and frustrating, and after a long day, and an even longer year, I’d had enough.

I finished my glass of wine and put myself to bed, lying on my naked mattress that I hadn’t had the time or energy to make. And I cried. I let loose. Loud, hopeless sobs. I was in an empty house—so I thought—there was no one to judge me.

Bottle. I will be honest with you here.

I don’t know how long it took for me to hear it.

Or perhaps I didn’t hear it but sensed it.

The other sound. The other voice. It was almost as if it were attempting to harmonize with me.

Or intentionally hiding beneath my sobs, obscuring itself.

I bit my lip, covered my mouth to silence my own voice, to listen for it. But when I was quiet, it was quiet.

When I let go, fell back into my wailing, surrendered to my grief, to my tears, it came back.

Laughing. Throaty, hideous, soul-chilling laughter. Evil . Someone, something, laughing at me as I cried.