Purple Lilac

I grew up in an old, run down house out in the woods of Northern New Hampshire. It was a pleasent place, mostly. Except for the basement.

I hated that basement, the very air reeked of ages old must and felt heavier than it should have. There was "something" in there too. The basement was in a rough "L" shape, about 10 feet wide, maybe 2 1/2 times that long. At the one end of the "L" was a single brick missing from the wall. I always got terrified going near that hole... the whole basement was creepy, but that opening was where it was strongest.

Once, at about age 8, I went down into the basement with a flashlight, determined to see what was inside. I crept up to the hole, ignoring every screaming instinct, and pointed the light inside. There was an earthen floor continuing on for roughly another 10 feet, ending at a old heavy brick and mortar wall I recognized as the foundation wall seen on the outside of my house. (The house sat on a hill, with an embankment below)

I told my parents what I saw, I wish I hadn't. My step-dad got the bright idea of making it a storage room. He took a sledge and knocked in the wall. Then knocked our a segment of wall on the other side to make another entrance.

Since then, all kinds of strange shit was happening. Light bulbs unscrewing themselves and falling to the floor, moving furniture, noises from -inside- the walls. One incident frightened me in particular. I was sitting in my bedroom upstairs when I heard this tearing sound. I look over and the PAINT is ripping itself from the wall. I stood there, terrified, to scared to move or cry out, as the paint tore, curling away from the wall.

The hole the paint left was in a roughly humanoid shape.

Years later, long after we moved out, I came back on leave from the military to my hometown. Visiting the family, seeing how everyone was, you know.

I asked my Mom if we could go visit the old house. She tells me she doesn't want to. Seems after we moved out, another family moved and lived there a couple years. Their little daughter lost her life in the basement, no details were found concerning her death. The family moved out soon after, leaving the house to fall into ruin.

That night, I went to the then abandoned house. Along the way, I got two 5-gallon jugs of gasoline and a book of strike anywhere matches. The house was really far out there, and nobody lived in that rural neighborhood anymore. The driveway was cracked, the windows and roof sagging. I wrench the decaying door open and step inside with a gas can under one arm.

There's a yawning hole in the middle of the living room floor.

About 12 feet wide, a carefully skirt it and head for the stairs, they're in poor shape but I manage to get to my old room.

There's handprints everywhere.

I don't know if they were the work of vandals or not, but the handprints were white, and small. Floor, walls, ceiling, even on a few bits of rotting furniture. I start here. I doused everything in gasoline, the heady smell filled my nostrils. I back across the hallway into may sister's former room. No handprints, but I'm not letting a single bit of this house standing. Everything in the upper portion of the house is dripping with gasoline as I head back downstairs.

At this point, I'm sensing SOMETHING watching me, and I know it's not freindly. But I was so angry at this house and whatever was in it for my childhood and the little girl that I scream curses and throw the empty can into the hole.

I go back to get the second can and start in the kitchen. Filled the sink, poured some in the bathroom toilet, and got everything as close to the hole as I dared. After I made a good sized trail to the porch, I threw the half-empty can into the hole as well.

I lit the trail, and watched that accursed house burn down.

Someone must have seen it from the highway or something, because about 5 hours later, a firetruck came clanging down the road, but the house was so far gone they couldn't hope to save it. So much the better.

They asked me a few questions, but let me go as I told them that I was taking a drive and came to check if anyone was in danger when I saw the fire.

No investigation into the cause of the fire was made. They bulldozed the remains and covered it with dirt, leaving only a cracked patch of asphalt where the driveway was.

I planted a bush of Purple Lilac on the site, and to this day, it's the most beautiful bush I've ever seen.

I've done research at the town library about the house I lived in about a week later. Looking through the newspaper archives. Turns out a child-rapist/murderer used to live there around 1870. He'd kidnap and brutally rape and torture children in that room in the basement. It's also the same room he died in, when he was found out and hunted down.

This is my story, told as colmpletely as I care to divulge. Let this be a warning of the pollution left behind by the deeds of evil men.

Joseph M.