I was born in Detroit, Michigan, in the early 1980s. By that time, my city had been in decline for decades. The population of this once great city began to fall in the 1950s, when my parents were children, but the tipping point was the 1967 riots. My father grew up only one block away from the epicenter, and from what I was told, an uncle, my birth mother's brother, was killed in the urban unrest.
Over the course of the 1970s and into the 1980s, white flight, the decline of the auto industry, economic divestment, and the loss of the city's tax base plagued Detroit. Rampant poverty and the infiltration of hard drugs into the poorest areas, along with the drug war, didn't help.
My father and my birth mother divorced before I was a year old, and I ended up with Dad. He then remarried when I was two years old, and the woman he married became my mother. Shortly after their marriage, my family left Detroit, and for the next six years, we moved around the United States. During that time, my sister came along, so we became a family of four - my parents, myself, and my sister.
In that six-year period, we would occasionally visit Detroit. Dad would remark that every time we were in town, he would always see a funeral procession.
Eventually, we moved back to the city of my birth. Dad decided to purchase a house on the far east side of the city in a neighborhood dubbed Morningside, just blocks from the posh suburb of Grosse Pointe Park. Knowing Dad, the proximity to the Grosse Pointes sold him on the American Foursquare with white siding and black trim built around 1910. The rest of us weren't so sure.
Mom never liked the house as it was a "fixer-upper" that needed a lot of work. Over the years, my parents tried to make repairs. They patched the cracks in the walls with spackle, they painted their bedroom lime green, they stained the front porch. But it was never enough.
I always felt uneasy about the house, as did my sister. My brother came along a few years later, and he grew to feel the same discomfort the rest of us did, save my dad.
The house creeped me out.
Why? Why did I feel uncomfortable about the house I would live in for the next ten years of my childhood and adolescence?
It wasn't the fact that the walls were cracked and the siding was peeling and Mom was too embarrassed to host parties and sleepovers there.
It wasn't the fact that my bedroom was the only room that lacked a working HVAC vent, and therefore I could see my breath at night during the dead of Michigan winter.
It wasn't even the fact that over the next few years, my neighborhood playmates would leave with their families for the suburbs, and drug dealers, gangsters, and other rough characters would take their place on the block.
It was the ghosts.
In this house, we were never alone. On weekends, I would stay up late, sometimes with Dad while he was spinning away on his beloved exercise bike, and watch television downstairs in the living room. And that was fine, as long as I didn't look into the dining room and notice the windowed doors of the darkened den in the back of the house. I sensed something back there, like we were being watched.
My siblings not only felt the presence of something else in the house, they were sure they saw it. They were too young to describe it, though they certainly feared it.
And none of us liked the unfinished basement with the red painted walls. The storage room in the corner with the windows papered over was particularly frightening. Our parents placed the unwrapped Christmas presents in that room prior to the holiday because they knew none of us would dare enter it.
Mom blessed the house by marking a cross in anointing oil with her finger over each doorway. She reassured us that we were safe and Jesus would protect us. Yet her efforts towards invoking the divine did nothing to deter the spirits the house truly belonged to.
Eventually, when my brother needed his own bedroom, my sister got upgraded to the freezing cold bedroom, and I got moved from the "freezer" to the den. Since I was in the den now, I finally got used to it - sort of - and it became less scary. Still a little frightening, but I adapted enough to sleep. And growing into a depressed teenager helped me to sleep more.
In short, I made peace with the den.
That changed the end of my senior year of high school. While at a daytime pre-graduation ceremony, burglars shattered and climbed through one of the den windows. The alarm system did nothing to deter them from stealing my boombox with a Fleetwood Mac CD I got for my eighteenth birthday, along with the living room TV and some of Mom's jewelry. While they left before we returned, the ghosts now felt more real and malicious.
I left the state of Michigan for college that fall. Except for a couple of summers in college, I never moved back to the house in Morningside.
When I was twenty-five, Dad died suddenly in the house. When I stayed with Mom to prepare for the memorial service, the ghosts were no longer scary because Dad was now among them. Less than a year after his death, Mom let go of the house, which was in his name only, because she could not live with his ghost.
Like the families who came before us, Mom also moved to the suburbs.
Over the next several years, when I would visit Detroit, it would often be for funerals. My close cousin, my uncle, two of my aunts. And each time I was in town, I would return to Morningside and stop by the house.
At first, the house appeared almost as if we never left. Even the salmon-colored curtains were still hanging in the windows. Two years later, a large grey lock could be seen on the front door, no longer black, but repainted white. The matching dark screen door was gone. A few years after that, the windows and doors were completely boarded up.
Then one day, I returned to the old block, and the house was gone. Half the block was razed, including the house, the garage, the tree in the backyard next to where our family dog was buried, and everything else marking what used to be our property, except for a small section of driveway that led to the street.
The final time I visited the old block in Morningside, I marveled at its revitalization. The houses that were left were being renovated and refreshed, and our end of the block now sported a public outdoor gym and a shiny new playground. Where the house used to be? An exercise bike. Dad would love that.
About the Creator
Jaye Pool
Jaye Pool is a short story writer and the author of indie exvangelical litfic novels Make Me Free and To Die Is Gain. Subscribe to her newsletter here. She is also the creator & host of Potstirrer Podcast.
Wise~Guys
— Look Behind what's in Front of You ~ Make Good Choices — Hey, So how you Doin'..! Made~Men — Mobster Movies romanticise a distinctive, elegant appearance, impeccable attire style, along with the 'Families' expressive lingo. Making their 'Bones' gave them Panache — with vintage fedoras, tailored pin-striped suits, mirror-polished wing-tip shoes adorned with tassels; with their 'Gun Moll' gorgeous dates on their arms.
By Jay Kantor11 days ago in Families
Home Through the Winter Rain
Winter arrived gently that year, not with snowstorms or icy winds, but with steady rain that seemed to fall without end. The sky was a soft gray, heavy and calm, and the air smelled of wet roads and cold earth. On one such evening, a small family climbed into their own car, ready to begin the familiar drive home. The engine started with a low, comforting sound. The headlights cut through the mist, glowing warmly against the rain. The parents sat in the front seats, wrapped in thick coats, their breaths forming faint clouds before the heater slowly warmed the air. The mother adjusted the mirror, smiling softly as she glanced back at the children. The father rested his hands on the steering wheel, careful and steady, already focused on the road ahead. In the back seat, the children were bundled together like little birds hiding from the cold. Their jackets were bright against the dark interior of the car, and their shoes were still damp from puddles they had jumped in earlier that day. One child hugged a stuffed bear tightly, its fur worn soft from years of love. Another leaned close to the window, watching the raindrops slide down the glass in twisting paths. “Look,” one of them whispered, tracing a finger along the foggy window. “That one is winning.” The rain seemed alive outside, each drop racing the others, merging and separating, disappearing at the bottom of the glass. Streetlights reflected in the wet road, stretching into long golden lines that shimmered and broke apart as the car moved forward. The heater clicked louder now, filling the car with warmth. Slowly, gloves were pulled off, scarves loosened. The tight cold of winter faded into something soft and safe. The radio played quietly in the background—an old song the parents knew by heart. They didn’t sing out loud, but their heads moved gently to the rhythm. As the car traveled through the rain, the father slowed at each turn, careful not to rush. Tires whispered against the wet road. The mother pointed out familiar places as they passed—a closed bakery, a dark park, a row of houses glowing faintly from inside. Everything looked different in the rain, quieter, calmer, as if the world itself was resting. The children grew sleepy, their earlier excitement fading into peaceful silence. One rested their head against the other’s shoulder. The stuffed bear slipped onto the seat between them. Outside, the rain tapped steadily on the roof, a soft rhythm like a lullaby. “Do you remember,” the mother said gently, “when we used to drive like this before you were born?” The father smiled. “Long drives. Late nights. Just us and the road.” “And now,” she said, glancing back again, “we’re all here.” The children didn’t fully hear the words, but they felt their meaning. They felt it in the warmth of the car, in the way the parents’ voices sounded calm and close, in the steady movement carrying them safely forward. The road curved toward the edge of town. Trees stood bare, their branches dark and shining with rain. Water pooled along the sides of the street, reflecting the passing lights like tiny mirrors. Somewhere far away, a dog barked once, then fell silent again. One child stirred and yawned. “Are we almost home?” “Soon,” the father answered softly. That word—home—settled into the car like another blanket. Home meant dry clothes and warm soup. It meant lights in the windows and shoes left by the door. It meant safety from the cold rain and the long gray sky. As they drove, the rain began to slow. The drops grew smaller, lighter, until they were more like a mist. The clouds above thinned just enough to let a pale glow through, not quite moonlight, but something close. The world felt gentler somehow, as if winter itself had decided to be kind. The car turned onto a quiet street. Houses lined the road, each one familiar, each one holding its own small stories. The father parked slowly, switching off the engine. Suddenly, the world felt very still. The rain whispered one last time, then faded into silence. The children woke fully now, blinking and stretching. Coats were zipped, hats pulled on. The mother gathered the stuffed bear and handed it back with a smile. The father stepped out first, opening the door and letting in a breath of cool winter air. They walked together toward their house, shoes splashing softly in shallow puddles. The porch light glowed warmly, welcoming them home. Inside, the house smelled faintly of dinner and clean air. The door closed behind them, shutting out the cold and the rain. Jackets were hung up. Shoes were lined neatly by the door. The children laughed quietly, already talking about tomorrow. The parents watched them for a moment, tired but content. Outside, winter continued its slow rain. Inside, the family moved easily through their evening, wrapped in comfort and love. And though the night was cold, and the roads were wet, the journey had been enough—because they had made it home together.
By Sahir E Shafqatabout 18 hours ago in Families
Comments (2)
Excellent!
It seems cities tear down houses that are hunted or crime constantly happening in them. I am so glad they put up a brand new building up there. Gone with the old bad memories and now can create good ones. I feel your deep feelings in this story.