My parents are dead. I’m sorry to be blunt, I’m still getting used to saying it.
Dead. Gone forever. I mean, I know I’m not exactly *young* - I’m turning 36 this year, that’s probably ancient by the standard of most users on this site - but I really thought I had more time with them, you know?
We had a weird relationship. Sure, they loved me, I loved them, blah blah blah, but we weren’t… close. Not like my husband and his family. Summer cookouts, family vacations, reunions with matching t-shirts, the whole nine yards. It’s kind of nice to have been taken in by a family like that, but it’s definitely foreign to me. Like I’m an observer
I guess we were a normal family with a normal relationship until my suicide attempt in high school. God, has it been twenty years already? I won’t get into the gory details in the interest of triggers, but suffice it to say it involved a bathtub and a whole lot of blood. Like, a lot. I wasn’t fully “with it” when my parents found me, but I’ll never forget the way my mother screamed.
Anyway. After that was a lengthy hospital stay, a lot of doctors, and a whole bunch of medication. I’ve been on pretty much every SSRI, SNRI, and anti-anxiety drug under the sun, but none of them did much to help. It took until well into my adulthood to finally get the right diagnosis - Type 2 bipolar disorder. Getting on mood stabilizers has changed my life for the better in basically every way.
I’m getting off topic. Dealing with a mentally ill daughter was, understandably, a lot for my parents. I resented them for keeping their distance when I was younger, but now that I’m a little more removed from things I can sort of understand how they must have felt. How out of control the whole situation was, how little they could do to actually help me. I grew up, I moved away, we had polite-but-distant phone conversations once a week, and that was it.
I keep wishing I hadn’t answered the phone that day - as if that would have made it never happen, I guess, which is stupid. But I was enjoying a rare day off with my husband, Jay, eating pancakes and bacon and watching my dog Bubba play with his favorite ball, when my phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number, but I’m starting a new job soon and figured it might be someone from there, so I answered.
It was my parents’ neighbor, Dolores. “I’m sorry, honey. There was a car crash. Drunk driver.”
I’m an only child, as were both of my parents, and all of my grandparents passed away years ago. So, it’s up to me to go take care of their belongings, aka throw everything out and get the house ready to sell. Jay tried to insist on coming with me to help, but I asked him to please stay home and take care of Bubba. Bubba gets carsick, anyway. It would’ve been too stressful to travel with him.
I got to my parents’ place in Indiana yesterday. They’re just over the border from Illinois, not a terribly long drive from where I am in Chicago. Pulling up to their house was surreal. No car in the driveway. Lights off inside. I seriously couldn’t tell you the last time I came to visit. Looking at the house, I felt this sinking in my stomach, like something was wrong. I figured it was just the guilt of how long it had been.
I should have paid attention to that feeling.
My first day at the house was mostly uneventful. Called the dumpster company to get that scheduled, made some pasta, FaceTimed with Jay. While I was talking to Jay, though, a little reminder notification popped up across his face - “TAKE YOUR MEDS”.
Shit. I forgot to pack my meds.
Jay, of course, completely panicked when I told him. Offered to bring them out here to Bumfuck, Nowhere via Uber. A very sweet offer, but totally unnecessary - I’ve skipped single doses by accident before, and just feel kind of spacey with an annoying headache. Not ideal, but manageable. We agreed I’d get my psychiatrist to call in a prescription to the local pharmacy today, no problem.
Getting off the phone with him was when shit started to get weird. I know old houses can be creaky as fuck, and all of that seems ten times louder and scarier when you’re there alone, but I swear on my parents’ graves I heard footsteps upstairs. Quiet, like someone trying to sneak around.
Because I am an idiot, obviously I went to investigate. Hallway - nothing. Linen closet - nothing. Mom and Dad’s room - nothing. But then, as I left their room, across the hall I saw the door to my old bedroom slowly swing closed. My heart basically dropped to my feet.
I called out a hesitant “hello?”, because, as previously mentioned, I am an idiot. No response. I crept across the hall, pushed open my old bedroom door, and found…
…my room, exactly as I had left it. Nothing was changed, down to the cardboard cutout of Orlando Bloom as Legolas propped up in the corner. I got so caught up looking at my old posters and faded photos of high school friends that I almost didn’t notice the door closing on its own. A cool breeze ruffled my hair - the window was open. Guess that explains the closing doors and creaky sounds. I shut the window and started to get ready for bed.
Falling asleep was hard. I never sleep well in new places. Well, I guess this isn’t technically a “new” place, but you know what I mean. Anyway. I was just starting to drift off, when suddenly all the lights in the bedroom flicked on, and my old cd-player kicked in with some Evanescence. I don’t know if you’ve ever experienced that kind of massive jolt of adrenaline at three o’clock in the goddamn morning, but I’ll tell you what, it’s not something I’d recommend.
Once I got Amy Lee to shut up, I tried to settle back into bed, but just couldn’t. I dragged myself back downstairs for some 3am ice cream and infomercials, and ultimately crashed on the couch.
Just like I expected, I woke up with a hangover-type headache from skipping my pills. The lack of sleep probably didn’t help. The dumpster company came bright and early, and thankfully that got set up without a hitch, until one of the guys glanced up at the house and said -
“That your daughter?”
I whipped my head around. The curtain in one of the upstairs windows was swaying gently, as if someone had just dropped it. I turned back to him, confused.
“No, I don’t have kids. I’m here alone.”
“Oh. Sorry, must’ve been a trick of the light.”
Whatever. I had bigger things to worry about than some trash guy thinking he saw a kid upstairs, right? Sure. I got to work, lugging boxes of junk out to the dumpster, which started to fill up surprisingly quickly. I stopped for a glass of water from the kitchen, but when I headed back toward the front of the house, there was someone standing with their back to me. A teenage girl, slim, with a brown bob.
She was trembling, fists clenched. That’s when I noticed - fucking idiot, I left the front door open.
I called out to her, trying my best to sound like a confident adult. “Hey kid, I don’t know who you are, but you need to get out of my house.”
In a flash, she took off, bolting upstairs. I was hot on her trail, and saw her head into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. I saw her go in there. I *saw* her.
But when I opened the door, she was gone.
I checked the shower, the linen closet, even under the fucking sink. The window is too small to crawl out of, and even if it was big enough, what was she gonna do? Drop two stories straight down? It was like she was never fucking there.
I just about jumped out of my skin when the doorbell rang.
Now listen, I know what you’re thinking right now. I know because I had the same thought. “Oh no, the bipolar bitch forgot her meds and now she’s hallucinating.” Okay, maybe you didn’t call me a bitch in your head, but I sure did in mine. But GET THIS.
I went downstairs, very shaky and sufficiently spooked, and found Dolores at my front door. My parents’ neighbor, the one who told me they died. A good lady. A lady who wouldn’t bullshit me, who has no reason to bullshit me. And when I tell you the way my stomach flipped over when she said to me:
“I saw your daughter upstairs and wanted to come introduce myself!”
She pointed to the upstairs window. I ran out of the house, looked up, and saw that same teenage girl turning away from the window, dropping the curtain behind her.
Thank god I had my phone on me, because I wasn’t about to head back into that house for anything. I’m at Dolores’ house now. I told her the whole story, and shockingly she doesn’t think I’m crazy. Maybe because she saw the girl herself, who knows. She’s cooking dinner for us now, and we’re figuring out what to do next.
Shit.
I’m watching my parents’ house through the window, and the light in my bedroom just turned on.
There’s someone inside.