It started when we moved in to the house.  It was spotless and full of bright light with all of the walls painted a blank eggshell.  It was a canvas waiting to be filled with a new vibrant story.  As I have come to find out however it already has a story and is commanding the brushstrokes as it sees fit!

Nooks and crannies would suddenly not be empty as we would begin to fill the spaces with our belongings.  A pebble in the corner of the closet; a while later we found a key under the oven; as we completed our unpacking we discovered an old blanket in the linen closet.  Small things that make you wonder, but nothing bold enough to freak you out.

Our lawn is turning against me as well.  The grass which was turning more brown and tan by the day is now bleaching into a muted gray – the neighbors grass is green and succulent, and the scandalous looks through the slats in our fence are irritating to the point of action.

It was yesterday when I was digging in the soil near the storage room door on the side of the house when I came across evidence too much to be ignored.  Wanting to add some life to our sea of a back yard I was preparing to drop in an evergreen shrub.  My hole was ready but when I returned with the root ball I peered into the hole to gauge the depth when the sight forced me to drop it and ultimately crack the ‘ball threatening the plant.

A hand lay in at the bottom of my excavation.  Dusty and brown the shock made my eyes water and I fell backward off my heels.  I crawled back to the hole and looked in again.  What I was sure was a semi-fresh fleshy hand was nothing more than the skeletal remains of one now.  Still shocking, and still unbelievable – what am I to do?  My options are to rebury the hand, or find out how much more is down there.  I prefer option one, but I never claimed to be a smart guy.  If I don’t find out if it is attached to anything else, it will eat at me until I go mad.

I choose option two and reach out with my garden glove and give it a grip.  Shaking its hand and pulling, I am sure it is squeezing back while it lifts out effortlessly.  The rest of the body it belonged to is either not there, or disconnected.  Of course my family is out running some errand while I sit and ponder what is going on, and what this might all mean.  The thoughts about moving to a new home are not far from my mind.  The panic keeps those thoughts from invading further when the hand grips mine firmly.  Being absent of muscles, this shouldn’t be possible, although such rational thoughts are not in my mind at the time.  The harder I shake and try to fling it from the end of my arm the harder it hangs on and crushes my fingers inside my leather mitt.

The pain is quickly too much to bear and I squeeze back instinctively to try and wound it back.  It loosens its grip immediately and falls to the ground motionless.  I stomp on it breaking a few of the segments apart.  I collected the pieces in a doggie poo bag, which was the only thing handy; at least it was empty before depositing the pieces…

All but one.  One fingertip piece was missing and nowhere to be found.  I pitched the goody bag into the plastic pot that previously held my now-broken shrub – and came back into the house to wash my hands and face to consider my circumstances.

I was on a conquest for alcohol, the only thing readily accessible to numb the other dancing in my head, holding me captive.  Normally contained in the house, I can escape when the times are dire and I have to purchase food or other staple items.  Why is it my family only seems here and present in the daylight hours, or when I need verification that I am sane?  They are all too eager to admit I am – I’m suspicious of them all.

I have no real concept of time right now.  I feel like there is a rubber band strapped to my back – the further I get from the dwelling, the harder it wants to snap me back.  The second traffic light seems like the breaking point, when I pass through on the green, the rubber band loosens and I rocket forward into town on a clear night.  The haze that normally clouds everything has lifted.

I feel so awake, so alive while I pull into the fluorescent lighted supermarket.  No one makes eye contact in the store as they just push their way through the checkout line.  Only one lane is open as the poor chap manning the large van out front, is busy steam cleaning the entry carpets.  They all seem normal with no ulterior motives.

With my beer in hand, the guy two places ahead of me stands waiting for his total so he can leave and get on with his day.  But its not day, its night and the broad smile forming on the cashier’s lips exposing the tiny toothy grin is enough to raise my blood pressure.  She’s one of ‘them’.  The guy standing in front of me with the single pint of Chunky Monkey wont face me… I have no idea how entrenched I am.  I wont turn and examine the couple behind me either.  “I’m doomed” I admit to myself while anxiously awaiting my turn to pay and bail out the front door and into my car.

She’s normal as far as I can tell, as I watch the subtotals flash across the digital monitor with my purchase being announced for anyone looking our way.  I break my stare and I can hear the desperate hissing of her hungry sighs, I swipe my card across the magnetic reader quickly and in a quick rebuttal, it demands a second caress.  The hunger panged panting is more intense, however when I shoot up to see the checker smiling happily at me, her human persona does not expose her lighter side as a fraud.

I exit the market with a few Greebles on my tail, but they stop just outside the door – its as if they were suppose to have kept me in but failed miserably. My Coors Light slides right into the passenger seat when I take off past the fast food joints and back onto the main drag leaving the Greebles behind.  My antagonists appear to be of limited power, although they make up for it in their numbers.

Skidding down my gravel road, I exit he vehicle and toss myself and the case of beer through the waiting opened front door – which swings closed and lock itself behind ‘us’.  I feel there was a rush to get down the lane and into the house, even though nothing seems to follow us closely behind.  I am relax again in my safe walls – even if I am again a prisoner.

Never the less I was not “captured” in the dream, and the descent that I spoke of was pretty much perpetual like an audible illusion. It only seemed like the arbiter of death was getting closer, though it was definitely behind me.

My focus is completely broken when a new sound erupts from my left, from the shower stall. Once my heart beat returned to a semi-normal state I wiped away the sweat and glanced over the edge of the shower doorframe to see the masked view of a gray rat. The door glass is made of the bubbled privacy variety that does more to hold the grime than it does shield your view of what lies on the other side. Mr. Rat scraped his claws against the glass while inspecting it for a supposed exit.

Delight courses through my body as I realize my discovery absolves many of my fears about my haunted house. A rat in the walls explains so many of the noises I have been hearing and dreading over these last several months. Although I was not certain how this rodent made his way into my shower, and ultimately caged himself, I did know that this pest was not going to escape. The rat day spa was going to turn into his deathbed. I giggled while plotting his demise.

Quickly I scurried to the kitchen and threw a large pot of water onto the stove and cranked the knob to “10″. Soon the element below the metal base began to glow its orangey light showcasing the crumbs I have let collect and neglected cleaning in the pan below the coil. I make incalculable trips from the warming pot to the shower and back again. Determined to prove the adage that a watched pot never boils, I spend a good deal of time watching the bubbles slowly form at the base. The rat has stopped scratching and seems to be content just sitting and waiting. I haven”t dared open the shower door, expecting the rat to be light on its feet, though his muddled image through the bubbled lens makes him look pudgy and fat. I wonder what foods he”s been pilfering from my cupboards.

The water eventually becomes too hot to touch and begins to boil. It”s not a rolling boil, but it is plenty hot for what I plan to do to my little invader. I remove the steaming pot of water and haul it into the bathroom just next to the shower. The rat hasn”t moved. I say a quick prayer that it didn”t have a heart attack – and then I hastily pour the contents of the cauldron over the top of the stall. Mickey shrieks and clamors about the walls creating an echo and reverberation that makes the threads in my spine ache. His grisly screams subsided and turned to a whimpering – I smiled and returned to the kitchen to grab another vessel of scalding death. Smirking I wonder how many pots it will take to remove his fur.

It was when I returned with the third boiling drum of water that I realized something was amiss. The image from behind the glass was larger now and a ripe red color. No noise came from the stall other than the lingering drips that hung from around the enclosure from all the steam. I”m not sure if it was curiosity or pity that made me swing the door slowly open to examine the shower floor. It was terror however, that made me go cold and my knees buckle. Lying on the hot floor was a balding child, red from exposure and limp.

With my eyes full of tears and a huge knot in my throat I crept on my knees closer. I didn”t see any rat. In fact all thoughts of the intruder had left my mind, I just needed to check that this once beautiful baby was okay. My fingertips inched closer to her skin and hovered for a moment. Bringing them closer and making contact let me feel the tacky flesh that sought my attention. My full palm lay on her shoulder when her head popped around to look me straight in the eyes with her bloodshot gaze. Her limp mouth hung open agape and empty of everything but a new shriek – this time my own.

I lay there in bed screaming to my wife shaking me awake. It was all part of another dream. A dream from within a dream, and I was safe now back in my own bed. Sweating and panting I returned to lying on my back and staring at the ceiling€¦ resting in a puddle of hot sheets.

He kind of shrugged and sauntered away, looking left and right as he walked down the driveway. It was when he reached the edge of the pavement and touched the gravel road that I popped my head all the way up and peered at his backside. On cue, he stopped in his tracks and spun around to meet my gaze. Did he sense or hear me? Why did he turn around!?

The Greeble bolted for my window, but the elevation, or lack of, outside kept him from seeing in – even on his tiptoes. I looked down at him writhing below the glass and cheap screen. Occasionally it appeared as if we made eye contact, but he never locked on, swaying his head and feeling the wall like a blind man. Then he really started to freak me out by smelling the sides of the house. Taking huge snorts against the painted slats of my home, he traced what could have been my outline from the other side of the wall. Sniffing and grunting against the house, through his nose-less face he found a spot he particularly liked and put his hands against the siding to brace itself and pressed hard inhaling deeper and with more vigor.

I ducked down truly afraid of what this beast might be actually looking for. I think it’s probably physically impossible to sniff oneself through a wall – but he was giving it a solid run for its money.

Finally my drum-playing neighbor drove down the road and parked in front of his home, having finished his day of underage mayhem. His own chuckles and laughter broke the frustration – he was obviously entertaining a guest he was having over… all this finally made me realize that the odor-hunting vacuum on the other side had fallen silent.

It took just a few seconds for me to make it from one side of the house to the other, finding my way to the front door and the side window, where I could scan the driveway and see my window from the other side. It’s a mean trick that these Greebles play – popping up from under this new window and beaming at me face to face – still waving his head slightly and taking in the fragrance of glass. This time it was gentle and appreciative, as if he was enjoying the aroma and… well, getting ready to dine.

When I made this realization he simultaneously decided it was time to meet me in person, reached for the doorknob and proceeded to assault the handle. Frantic now he fought the door but was losing. I desperately wanted to go and pull from the other side insuring that he would not draw it from its hinges – while I glanced down and see that the door itself is UNLOCKED! Eyes like saucers, I imagine – I began to cry. Literally right then and there, I knew I was only moments away from my demise. But as much as the house hates me – it seems more determined to keep me for itself. Several times the Greeble pulled the door open almost an inch, only to have it slam back into the doorjamb and bounce itself face first into the knocker.

That same vertigo from the attic began to set in and all I could think to do was scream. I don’t know what I said or what language it was in – but I ended it with a hearty “Go Away!” And opening my eyes found the Greeble to be gone. I don’t know where to – and I don’t care for now, but my front door is still sealed shut. Not that I want to wander around the neighborhood right now anyway.

I always told myself that if I ever lived in a haunted house I’d just move. Why be like one of those families that just “stick it out” because it is their “home” and they love the house and are certain to explain away the problems/spiritual-overtaking, or can get a paranormal expert to come in and cleanse the house.

Have you ever ruined a shirt or pair of pants? Gotten a stain so deep into them that they are worthless as regular day-to-day clothing in the normal world? Ever encountered something you simply couldn’t fix? Sure the stain can fade – but the imperfection is still there. With each washing the rest of the fabric wears down and becomes weaker, a mere shadow of its former sturdy self. That’s what you are asking for if you want to try and “fix” your haunted house. You may diminish the whatever-decided-to live-with-you, but you can never truly rid yourself of it.

So why not just leave? Run away and never look back – become the person you want to be after shedding those final ties to that God forsaken house. Its just wood and nails after all, right? Not really.

The stain is set, and just like a ruined jersey that grinds into the rest of the clothing in your hamper – the stain spreads. Well the stain is spreading. I feel my house hate me, while also needing me. I feel myself wanting to escape these sometimes-darkened walls, while also needing the solace of the warden made of 2×4 timbers.

Is this an addiction? Am I addicted to my house? What part of me desires this unnerving and soul tapping fear?

I normally see them out of the corner of my eye – living in my peripheral vision only. Normal people I meet everyday when I decide to leave the house, when they pass and make their way behind me transform into their Greeble states. Not so long ago I thought that everyone other than me was afflicted with this alternate state of devilishness, but I have seen others like me… other people who look upon me with distrust and fear of every other person who passes by them. There are other pure people like myself – but we never seem to congregate for long – something always seems to break us up and separate us as quickly as we realized we were similar.

Normally when I realize there is one watching me, skulking nearby I twist to catch his gaze but I only see their human shape. The broad toothy grin is gone, and the black eyes – with no whites at all, are normal and almost apologetic. It was last night, however, that I saw one in my dream, looking right at me as I stared it right in the face.

Its face is the same shape as a regular face I guess. The shape always looks the same in my periphery, its just the features that alter during those stalked times. Its mouth is broad and spans from cheekbone to cheekbone while elevated to the center of the head, making for a huge chin. The eyes are in the same location as you would expect, but with sallow lids and circles under them, hiding and withdrawn as if hiding from the light. There was no nose that I could distinguish, or at least remember much about which explains the near-panting movements of the mouth as they breath to steam bifocals from yards away. His complexion was grayish, or at least deathly ill – and had thick wiry hair. Not like greasy wiry like you would expect on a bum, no, more like several millimeter thick hair, twisting in a few strands back from his brow to the rear of his head.

His breath was upon me and seemed to pass right through my very being. And instinctively I knew the name: Greeble.

While troubleshooting an electrical problem with (you guessed it) a ceiling fan, I put on a brave face and climbed into my attic to check out the electrical box that the fan attaches to. I tried doing this from below but the box got wedged and wouldn’t come undone. I am deathly afraid of the attic – I can hear something moving about up there all through the night. I once dismissed it as a raccoon or something on the roof, but sometimes I see the ceiling bulge down and know its something between the rafters.

I spent several minutes standing on my ladder and rotating in place with my flashlight shining it around the surfaces and watching for any movement. Of course there was nothing up there that I could see other than the blown insulation and the gray dust that hung in the air drifting in the beam of my light and from the few vents that speckle the wooden supports and plyboard above me. I hesitated several more minutes before ascending all the way up leaving the noises of normal air below me and engulfing myself in the stifling heat of an attic in early summer.

It was almost peaceful with all the silence. The thin planks of wood that stretched between the ceiling joists helped me make decent time from the entry to the slanted and thinning eves portion of the crawlspace. It would become pitch black each time I would mistakenly use the flashlight to move some of the insulation and buried it – the vents providing zero reprieve. The seconds of extreme blackness seemed like minutes as I would shift my weight to remove the light from the fluff and reinspect my surroundings. I was dripping sweat like I never had before, sticking my shirt to my back and drenching myself. My one splayed hand and two kneed approach to getting from my point A to my point B was taking too long.

I just managed to get to the light electrical box thing when the board beneath me cracked and I quickly got to a safe beam – not wanting to fall to my demise, through the ceiling and into the kitchen. Disorienting as it is up there, it began to spin slightly clockwise, and though I perched my torch on the rafter beside me and I squatted on all fours, vertigo set in and then the fun began.

The attic exhaled and boards creaked all around me as the attic-top descended and tried to crush me where I “stood”. I could see the opening I crawled from only minutes before, not more than twenty feet away. The light that shined up from the promising cavity hit the boards and was absorbed into the grain – without my flashlight I would be in a slow labyrinth of rafter trying to make it back to the cooler air. More disheartening was the flicker of shadows below the attic doorway dancing on the press board and shingled layer above me. I was the only one home, there shouldn’t be anyone down there.

Deciding to forget the risk of falling through I just moved full throttle to the entry, planning to take my chances with whoever was below me. Sight eluded to blindness and I shoved my flashlight down to stabilize me with each bound towards the horizontal door. My attic didn’t want me to leave – halfway to the opening I witnessed the light below diminish as if it were falling away or the attic was blasting off. More grunts from the planks around me only kept me leaping forward and I reached the hatch and slid down the ladder face first and let my legs crumble on top of me raining gray insulation into my eyes.

I righted myself and reached up to grab the handle on he crawlspace cover and pulled it across to seal in the dusty glutton that is now my attic. In an almost vacuum-like seal the cover came to its normal resting spot with a slight sucking sound. Collapsing my ladder and pulling it away from the opening seemed to spur the rooftop into a frenzy and it moaned for several seconds. I can only imagine what kind of contorting and emissions it was making outside the house.

Suffice to say, I am not finishing the installation of that fan.

Every time, and I do mean EVERY time, I have the fan running and the headphones singing to me, that’s when I hear her getting up and down out of the bed and pacing the room. About twelve or so steps toward my curtain and then back again. I hear her footfalls through my office chair, the vibrations and depressions… my divider sways from the battle of the window-whirring propellers and the ceiling fan that she insists on turning on, despite my trying to convince her it is evil. Which by the way is difficult to do without sounding mentally ill, and I am not sure I was successful at either.

I can either sit and wait for her to spring open the drape, or peek out and catch her mid-step, which I have also been unsuccessful in ever accomplishing. When I remove my phones and reach for the cloth I can feel the person on the other side run back away, and there is never anyone there. I know there is though. Though the music plays in my right ear, I let the left one hang out and let me know if anyone is coming, or talking. I can hear them whispering, the ceiling fan and whomever keeps pacing in the room. Its not a language I can understand unless they are just speaking too softly.

My wife can’t hear it or just ignores it. She sounds as if she’s sleeping but I am no expert at deciphering the fake snores from real ones. She’s breathing deeply and seems relaxed. I don’t remember hearing her snoring when the pacing begins though – I am wagering that she is in on it, even if she is unwilling. If I find out, there’ll be hell to pay.

So I am in the bathroom using the toilet from all my beverages, granted tonight they are alcoholic in nature – and the mechanical sound in my head is persistent as I relieve myself and listen to the motors of the fans in other rooms. My attention comes to my reflection, appearing in two of the medicine cabinet panes. When I am able, I stand in front of them and move the left one so that it merges the reflection with the one on the right – making the two halves whole. I practice making faces and suddenly I hear one of the mechanical sounds in my head stop.

I can still hear the fans in other rooms, but the overbearing noise that normally rattles in my head has suddenly stopped. This sound must be feedback from them listening to my thoughts. My hat was on the shelf next to my desk – I only wear it when I sleep. They must have stopped listening, maybe the boys in ‘black’ are taking a coffee break and leaving me alone for the night.

I may be buzzed but I am coherent, and I am reaching the end of my rope. My same window fan keeps blowing my curtain. The curtain blows open and closed like a stalker would manipulate a window shade to catch a glimpse of his prey without being obvious. But I see it. I see it all. And as I sit down to write this message to you, even now, I can hear the contorted laughter from the squeaking bearings and mechanics that are in each of my electronic devices.

I feel so alone.

My desk is littered with glasses and bottles. I have cans in the bare spots on my windowsill next to my radio. The bottles, some of them beer, occasionally jitter about and nudge each other as if they are making jokes about me and trying to hold in their laughter. The cocktail party never ceases, though the soda cans that I have made wallflowers of just sit silently, ever watching me just above my head and seeing the words as I type them even now.

Another downside to this insatiable dilemma is the countless bathroom breaks I have to take. Making my way past the shrouded laundry room and over the threshold right next to the bathroom. This of course is a bigger issue at night, taking twice as long to reach my destination as I peer around each doorway and corner on my lengthy journey of about fifty feet to the toilet. Double takes and long bouts of waiting in the doorway as I make certain that the shadows are just shadows, and not lumbering souls in the corner.

My medicine cabinet with its three mirrored doors mock me when I sit down for relief and have to face it. Its panes break apart my face in its reflection and make me look at my different parts, sneering at the others and then focusing on me. My reflection hates me – and its making me thirsty.