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Haunted Houses and Frozen Bunnies

B ehind the house I grew up in was an old, abandoned funeral home.

The small concrete lot had wiry black weeds growing through the threadlike cracks, and the pointed pebbles and dusty rocks were heavy.

I recalled when it was occupied. A thriving business.

And I recalled when it went, according to Mama, belly up.

Something about bad business practices. Most children, I imagine, would’ve been afraid to live behind a funeral home, but not me.

It didn’t make me any difference. I was only about ten or eleven, and all I had on my mind was my next trip to McDonald’s, ball games, and NASCAR.

I would play baseball with my friends right in that backyard, or even on the deserted property, but we didn’t have the gumption to enter.

Too many of my friends’ parents had warned them to stay away from there.

My mama didn’t say anything at all about it.

I wasn’t certain if she cared if I went over there or not.

Maybe she just assumed I’d be too afraid to do such a thing, so no warning was necessary.

If that was the case, Mama was wrong. One day, that all changed.

I’d crossed the line that separated the living from the dead.

With my face covered in dried mud from a game of army men with my friends earlier in the day, I felt like some sort of stern sergeant dishing out orders.

I usually assumed the position of leader, no matter what.

I was an only child—wasn’t used to sharing or playing fair with others—but what I lacked in decorum, I made up for in bravery and generosity.

It didn’t hurt that my nickname was Sky, due to my height.

Kage ‘The Sky’ is Wilde. I just sort of commanded authority despite my child body.

As if I were in the know, wise beyond my years.

Nothing could have been further from the truth.

Today began like many other days when my friends and I would fool around with a football, sticks, or a game of Freeze Tag over at Gideons Funeral Home.

We’d dare one another to go in, but this time I said, ‘Let’s do it.

’ I always led the charge in cases such as these, somehow thinking the mud caked on my face and the slingshot in my oversized jeans back pocket would protect me from any spooky things that may lurk within those walls.

My band of misfits and I managed to pry the plywood off one of the first floor windows, and made our way inside.

Twisting and turning our bodies just so, helping each other through the portal of mortality.

My neighborhood buddies and I felt accomplished, but I soon realized that they’d huddled behind me, grouped like little ants, pushing and knocking into my back.

‘Come on! Lay off!’ I yelled, needing some elbow room.

Our sneakers crunched on pieces of fallen wood and debris as we walked in slow motion.

The sounds of our steps and jerky breathing added more terror to the situation.

I remember how my heart boomed in my slender chest. An uneven, loud death rattle.

A dark rhythm desperate for the beat of the light.

When my eyes had finally adjusted to the dimness, only a sliver of light entered from the window we’d exposed, allowing me to see that we were in a big room with a low ceiling—a parlor of sorts.

A large gold mirror covered in grime hung on the wall to my left, and ahead of us, about fifty feet, was an old organ.

I glanced back at the mirror, not liking how I felt when I gazed in it.

I could see fragments of my reflection. Bits of motion, but not much more.

I couldn’t understand why the mirror was so dirty, almost as if someone had tried to cover it with dark gray paint.

I turned around and noticed other mirrors were partially covered with blankets, or had the same uneven paint-like substance.

I then turned to stare at what I originally thought was an organ, but was more than likely a black piano.

Just then, a circle of light flashed all around us.

I got startled, jumping in my skin, thinking some adult had caught us trespassing.

Maybe a police officer, or Mr. Buster, the man who lived next-door to my mother and me.

It was only my buddy, Trent, who held a flashlight he’d obviously forgotten all about until right then.

He had a habit of keeping all sorts of things in his pocket.

Matchbooks with only two matches. A lighter that never worked.

Toy balls. Old, lint-covered pieces of candy that we wolfed down as if we’d never had a treat in our lives.

I told him to come stand by me since he had something that could help our explorations, but he refused.

Instead, he shoved the thing in my hand and raced back into the middle of the pack, like the chicken that he was.

He’d only come inside with us because he didn’t want to stand out there all alone, with the sun starting to set and all.

I remember gripping that flashlight hard, and regarding him with a dull rage.

I looked over my shoulder, staring into his beady gray eyes, and my blood boiled.

I had no idea what that feeling was at the time, but I do know what it was now: Disgust. The feeling you have when someone who you thought was on your level lets their fears chase them away from a good time, or in some cases, doing the right thing.

Like stickin’ up for a loved one during tense times, or apologizing when you’ve fucked up.

I sucked my teeth, hurled a few curse words his way, and turned back around.

Larry finally broke from the pack and walked side by side with me, feeling safer with me having the flashlight and all.

After we discussed our game plan for where to explore next, I slowed down and took it all in.

The funeral home. What I remember to this day is the odor…

I remember the atmosphere was thick and musty.

Stagnant air. Stale and rotten. Putrid sweetness, followed by a faint whiff of burnt wood, right at the end of the inhale.

I now know that stench all too well. Death.

Animal carcasses and men spoil in similar fashions.

As a child, I was unsure what that stench was, but it nauseated me.

A couple of my friends cursed about it, and pulled their shirts up over their noses.

Sometimes the bodies of the deceased can be long gone, but their smell hangs in the air for weeks, sometimes even months afterward.

This place had been closed down for at least a couple of years. Strange.

My friends and I began to disperse as we got more comfortable.

We could see much better now, and there were things to touch and play with.

A woman’s white gown hanging from a wardrobe.

Sheets of music on the piano. Artificial roses.

Stacks of yellowed obituaries. Rodney pretended to be dancing with the dress on, and teased that it was Larry’s mother.

That almost started a fight. We traveled up the steps and discovered an office, empty bedroom and bathroom.

The office was strangely clean. Just a thin layer of dust. On the wall hung a calendar dated from two years prior.

Beside it was a framed picture of Jesus.

He had milky white skin, and flowing light brown hair.

A peaceful slight smile graced his face.

It was so much different than the pictures in Mama’s house.

She had big movie posters, psychedelic rugs pinned up for display, tarot card pictures, and spiritual sayings she fancied.

Next was an old desk with a couple of ink pens on it, and pamphlets.

Some of my friends opened the drawers, hoping to find treasures.

There were in fact a few pennies and dimes, but nothing that felt like a jackpot.

Several of them jammed the money in their pockets all the same.

We left the office, and entered the bathroom.

The toilet was filled with stinking brown water and some of my friends threatened to splash it on each other.

It smelled like old piss and rancid shit.

After raiding the medicine cabinet and coming up empty, no prescription pill bottles or anything of value found, just a bottle of lotion and a shaving kit with no razor, we ventured back down the steps.

I could have sworn I’d heard the piano. Just a note or two.

It happened so quickly, it was like my mind was playing tricks on me.

No one was standing around the piano—everyone was accounted for upstairs, and nobody heard it but me.

I pushed it out of my mind, figuring I was hearing things, and we challenged one another to go into the basement.

Once again, I volunteered. At the time, I was terrified, but the last thing I wanted to be viewed as was a punk.

Larry and a guy named Petey came beside me first. The other boys, not wanting to feel like pussies, finally tagged along.

The door was half hanging off the hinges and slanted at an angle, but still difficult to muster fully open.

It was heavy, and anyone larger than a child would have a hell of a time getting past it.

We slipped behind it, one by one, careful to avoid a crooked nail jutting out from the middle of the damn thing that would surely cause us pain.

The stairs were warped and crooked, and I immediately heard droplets of water as we descended.