Elaine Meinel Supkis
Many years ago, I wanted to buy a house. I didn't have much money so the houses looked pretty bad. I was with a real estate lady, driving around Staten Island when I spotted a house for sale. It looked like a house in horror movies, just like this one: Hitchcock's "Psycho"
"Wait! Let's go there!" I said.
She said, "Oh dear, that house is cheap but it is on a high hill."
I jumped out of her car and ran up the broken wooden stairs. Up and up I climbed. At the top, the porch was in dark shadows. Big pine trees surrounded the house. An owl hooted. The house was painted all gray. Gloomy. Glommy. Clammy.
I loved it.
"Let's go inside!" I said to the real estate lady. She couldn't find the key. I decided to climb the railing of the porch to see if I could go in a broken window upstairs.
"Please, don't go inside," the lady said in a scared voice.
There was a tall tower. The owl's nest was up there. I wanted to climb up. I cleaned cobwebs off a window to look inside. It was a mess.
"Maybe I should buy this house," I said. The real estate lady nearly fainted.
"Oh, my," she said, looking at me funny.
It was a very creepy house.
I went home and told Joe about it. He said, "Wait, we just published a book about haunted houses. Let me look." There it was! In the book.
"Now I have to buy it!" I said. But I didn't buy it. There was no train station nearby. We couldn't live there and work in New York City. So I bought a brownstone. It was a strange house, too. It even had rats inside the walls. I was so happy.