The walls didn't bleed, but the black sludge that slid down them at the first hint of rain had no plausible source. The cellar smelled of death, and yet the rammed earth had been swept clean. Doors slammed. The hot water was either ice cold, or a hazard. The stairs were... agile and greasy.
"Do you remember when Grandma got sick? When her feelings got too big and she got tired and sad?" She said, softly and quietly to her children, holding their hands. "I think the house's feelings got very big. I think the house saw some really scary things like Grandma did when she was little, and it's feelings are too big to carry. I don't think houses are supposed to feel things like that. It doesn't want to be mean, it's just tired and sad. We don't have to let it be mean, but we can't be mean back, okay?"
Ashleigh would read the house bedtime stories from her thick, cardboard, books. Stories about the moon, and kittens, and even one about a friendly spider. She still saw shadows sometimes, but they only stood in the doorway now. They didn't try to reach for her ankles in the dark. That was okay, because she didn't like to sleep alone anyway. She would tell the shadow goodnight, and that she hoped it had good dreams.
Bryce knew to use the infra-red thermometer to check the water before showers. "Hey, it really hurts when you try to burn me. Okay? I just don't want to stink like a-... like butt after band. I don't know why you don't want us to shower but like... see these things on the floor? They're rough so you can't slip or nothing, okay? Please don't burn me." And it didn't. Sometimes the temperature shifted a little but never as badly as before.
Sometimes they prayed with the house. They weren't sure what else to do. They didn't pray at it, and it wasn't exactly Christian or ... anything else really, but they just ... just... sat with it, and said words of gratitude and peaceful contemplation. They wondered if it missed that moment of familial togetherness around the table. Each of them would note something good about their day, and something that maybe had been bad but had taught them something important, and there was always mention of being grateful for a roof over their heads... that shelter, togetherness, and safety made it a Home.
"I like it here, Mommy." Ashleigh had said once. "It was scary at first but you were right... the house was just scared. We were new, and different and I think the house was scared we might tear it up and change it. But I like it here."
"I like it here too, Baby." She had said, quietly. She liked that she could afford to feed, clothe, and house two children because the house had sold for pennies on the dollar. She liked that there was room here for hobbies and game rooms, for a home office and a real dining room. "I think, deep down, the house likes us too. We know some sad things happened here, and that's a lot of big feelings. I think that as long as we're good to the house and show it that it doesn't have to be scary, or scared... that it'll get better."
That night she stared at the spot of damp threatening to leech through the fresh coat of paint. "House... or... whoever you are. My kids have been through a lot. And we're going to keep having this little talk for as long as we have to. Please just love them the way I love them. Love them the way they love you. You see how they walk in the door after school and the world falls off of their shoulders because they're home? That's not just us, that's you too."
The house settled, almost sighed. It, the amalgamation of suffering and grief and love and joy and birthday parties and funerals and breakfasts and beatings and... life... emotions... feelings... It, the House, considered the wisdom of this Mother's words. It could run them away and sip on their fear and rage or it could love them fiercely, and grow strong with them for generations.
That... wouldn't be so bad.
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