In Limbo

There are houses whose souls have passed into the limbo of Time, leaving their bodies…J.Galswarthy

Perched at the top of the hill, it looks grand and from afar untouched by time.  As if at any moment the door will slowly open and someone will come out, the quiet would shatter and the numerous noises of everyday life will once again envelope it.

A closer look reveals a falling barn with a roof that lost its footing, way beyond repair. Another look, more thorough, at the house itself reveals the growing cracks in the otherwise impressive appearance. A mere hollow body with its soul gone or perhaps there is something of the previous life still pounding deep inside.

The color was once yellow, not a shiny lemon but deeper Ecru shade like a well worn silk. The years took the subtle luster away and added brown streaks like wrinkles on an aging face. It adds beauty in the eyes of those who believe that each wrinkle has a story to tell, wisdom earned by the years. The front door carved in dark wood took the worse beating by the passing years; the wood dried and lost its color. Still it stands there strong and proud ready to fulfill its mission, and guard against unwanted intruders oblivious to the fact that there is no longer anyone to protect.

I press the handle and the door open effortlessly, and while the cold air from inside, somewhat musty, escapes outside, I step in. I can sense the house sigh of relief as it wraps itself around me with many moans and squeaks. I know it is only the warmer air coming through the open door and now spreading in the closed space that is creating this effect. Constricting and expanding, it’s a physical phenomenon, but for a minute it seems as if the whole house is heaving a deep sigh of relief and stretches out. 

Eyes, it’s my first reaction as I slowly turn around trying to take in the full setting. Eyes looking at me from pictures hanging on the walls and the open albums tossed around. Someone must have been in a great hurry if they couldn’t stop for just a moment to gather their family pictures from the walls, and tuck an album or two under their arm. Left behind to rot, unwanted and unmissed they continue to breathe life into the empty space. As I stand there motionless, I think for a fleeting moment that I can hear them whispering softly, repeating the stories that no one will tell anymore. I lean forward and pick one of them that catch my eye and wipe the dust off. I stick it into my coat pocket and walk away.

***

I always had a passion for houses, mostly older ones with a story to tell. I have no explanation for this obsession. Growing up in a small apartment, surrounded by other apartments, and the sounds of people filtering through the walls, and ceilings, and doors, could have yielded this yearning.  All I know is that they were always present in my life, thoughts about houses, memories about houses, dreams about houses, you name it. This fascination manifested itself in varied forms; immersing myself in real-estate books, house plans, and occasional frantic searches for houses teamed with a keen memory of every house I lived in, or visited, as part of these disorganized pursuits.

Moving to Maine I added a relatively new chapter to my blazing infatuation, abandoned houses. They are without a doubt the icing on the cake. They have all the necessary components to light up my imagination, and the story teller in me. They are old, no one loves them, they are bodies with lost souls, and they have a story to tell.  

This one I found only few streets away from where I live, on top of a small hill. One cold winter day I climbed up to the front door, disturbing a thick layer of fresh shiny white snow. There were no other footsteps in sight. When I got to the top I turned around, the sun at my back, and looked over the sky, and the ocean, merging into a dazzling radiant blue.