The couple fought seemingly every day. At night the girl would shut herself in her room, crawl under her covers, and cry.
The house thought maybe if it could distract the couple, they would stop fighting, so sometimes it would drop objects between the two of them. But each time it did that, the arguments only got worse.
Finally, one day…
“Daddy? Mommy? Please don’t fight,” the little girl said, opening the door of her parents’ bedroom. She had screwed up her courage to go talk to her mother and father, who yelled at each other late into the night, every night.
The wife caught her breath, realizing her daughter had heard every word. The rush of blood to her head faded, and she started to get a grip on herself.
But not her husband. “Whose fault do you think this is?” he said, walking toward his daughter with a pronounced sway.
“Daddy…?” The girl looked up as her father loomed over her.
“Whose fault is it that these things are happening?!”
No sooner had he shouted that than there was a dry crack that could be heard throughout the room.
His daughter’s cheek was red and swollen. His wife was so startled that she almost stopped breathing, and their daughter simply stood without a word. Time passed, numb and torpid. None of them spoke, but in the silence, the house had one thought: It had to protect the little girl.
The house didn’t remember clearly what happened after that. It had a sense that it had fought wildly. To protect the little girl, the house attacked her father. The walls crashed down, the ceiling fell in, and the hallway twisted around on itself.
Horrified, the father fled. The house was satisfied that it had managed to protect the child.
But the little girl it had meant to save was clinging to her mother, face buried in her chest, crying. “Mommy, I’m scared!” Was it because her slapped cheek hurt? In an effort to reach out to the girl, the house dropped a doll in front of them.
But the child only whispered, “Mommy…I’m scared of this house…” She looked up and around, and the house no longer saw the kindness that had once been in her eyes.
It didn’t take long for the family to pack their bags and leave. Several times the house tried to stop them, but each time they looked as if they were witnessing something horrible.
What was it? What had the house done that was so wrong?
The house deeply regretted its own actions. Time passed. To make itself as pleasant as possible for any prospective new occupants, the house maintained itself in fastidious condition. More time passed. The house contemplated how it should greet any new residents. Still more time went by. Decades, and still the house had no answer. And absolutely no new owners appeared.
The days wore on like an eternity, long and unbearably lonely. Months and years with no one for the house to connect with. Until one day…
“Wow! What a neat house!”
A girl, about six years old, came in and looked around with joy.
Her father and mother were right behind her.
“It really is.”
“I wonder why they let such a lovely place go so cheap.”
At last, the house’s wish had come true—it had new owners.
By this time, however, the house had forgotten what it was. It had forgotten why it had become a sancta in the first place.
It had simply been waiting too long.
The house felt only one hazy, half-remembered impulse: to protect the little girl and her smile.
So the first thing it did was give her a doll. The girl was thrilled. “Wow! Where’d this come from?”
Her parents were not as happy. “Ugh. What’s this filthy old thing?” her father said. “Maybe the previous owners left it here. Let’s throw it away,” said her mother.
How could the house make the two of them happy?
The house considered. It was desperate not to be alone again. And so it tried to keep them there—desperately.
It dropped something. The parents looked displeased. The daughter was happy, though.
It dropped something else. The parents looked even more distraught. But the daughter looked happier still.
The father came back to the house less and less often, while the mother grew to be deeply unsettled by it. The two often fought at night.
Then the house remembered its former mistakes. But by that time, it was too late.
“Of all the ways I thought this would go, this wasn’t one of them.”
“Well, that makes two of us.”
One day, three women the house had never seen before came inside. It could hear everything they said. They spoke of finding the source of the paranormal phenomena and putting a stop to them. They talked about disenchanting things. That seemed to be what they were after.
The house was afraid.
It only wished they could understand. It began to struggle, fighting as if offering up a prayer. A prayer that its unspeaking voice might reach someone.
Elaina and Riviere didn’t seem to feel there was anything fundamentally “off” about what was happening in the house. But me, I had questions.
I found it hard to believe that two such brilliant women had missed something even I had noticed, so I started to think maybe I was seeing something they weren’t.
From the above facts, I could think of one possibility.
I stood there, silent. Yesterday, I had taken some initiative to do something on my own. I’d searched every corner of the house from top to bottom. The master bedroom, the office, the guest room, and little Carrie’s room. I’d studied all of it.
“MacMillia!” Riviere called from the front door, trying to get me to hurry up.
I crouched down and rushed through the kitchen, grabbing one of the knives that had fallen on the floor on my way. The house wasn’t just groaning; stuff was scattering all over. Every time things went flying, a dish would break, or a chair, sending shards everywhere. If I didn’t hurry and get out of here, I might be lucky to end up with just a flesh wound.
“Back up, you two!” I called.
Those were roses ensconcing the front door. If I could just slash through them, we should be able to get outside, I thought—so I held the knife tight.
“Yaaaaah!” No sooner had the two of them dodged aside than I slammed the knife down on the door. The tip lodged in the gap between the door and the frame, and I started working the blade along, following the doorframe, cutting through the roses with a shk-shk-shk.
Hnnnnnnnngh! From behind me, the groan came again. It almost sounded like someone in pain.
I reached for the door. “Miss Riviere? Elaina? Let’s get going!”
I threw myself against the door, and the two of them piled through it—thankfully, to the outside. Even as they went, I was still thinking: something I had seen that they hadn’t.
I came out with them, then turned around. A pen came falling. Then a notebook. Beds, lamps, sheets, and almost everything else from inside the house came tumbling down like rain.
“MacMillia, what’s wrong?” Riviere asked, worried.
That was when I saw it: a doll dropping right in the middle of the living room.
I could tell—that was the heart of the funny feeling I’d kept having.
“MacMillia?”
The little girl had wished to be friends with the house, and yet even though her wish had been granted, paranormal phenomena had constantly assailed the family. I’d wondered again and again why the house would behave in such a paradoxical way.
“Could it be?” I said, stepping forward. I went back into the entry hall, almost as if it was sucking me inward.
Riviere reached out. “Wait! MacMillia! Hold it right there! Do you know what will happen if you go back in there?!”
“It’s all right!” I said, turning to her. “I think I get what this house is thinking, more or less!”
I told her to just leave it to me, and then I smiled at her.
I ducked down again, making my way to the living room. Even though the house was howling around me, even though objects from the kitchen and the second floor were flying everywhere in a clear attempt to intimidate me, I was careful not to let any fear show on my face.