2782 Melody Drive

The sun room is my favorite room in the entire house. It was an addition to the main house, built by the previous owners. Soaked in sunlight, I’ve layered the room in leafy greens, sprinkling about ferns, monsteras and small palm trees. I’ve even considered running ivy along the walls and up the corners. It’s the only room I decorated completely on my own, aside from the armchair the previous owners had left as its centerpiece. When they realized they couldn’t drag everything to Europe with them, they were kind enough to throw in all their furniture with the deal when I bought the place. It was all very peaceful…

Until I was startled by a knock at the front door.

Quite a gentle knock, had I not been sunk deep into that broken-in armchair, basking like a cat in the heat of the sunlight streaming in through the paneled roof -- had I been watching TV or cleaning the house, it wouldn’t have been the kind of knock to startle me. It was a friendly 3 knock pattern, standard for a package deliverer delivering a package that I didn’t remember ordering, or a neighbor kid selling magazine subscriptions, or whatever it is they sell these days.

I climbed out of the armchair and made my way to the door, our old hound dog Chief wobbly propping himself up to his four legs, like newborn fawn, to meet me at the door in a slow hurry.

I peered through the peephole. It was a young lady, leaning into the fisheye lens as if to peer back at me, her one eye gigantic, her head much too big for her body.

I thought it was odd, then I answered the door.

“Yes?” I asked, peeking my head out just enough that I’d be able to slam it before she could even finish asking if I’d accepted Jesus as our lord and savior, had that been her intention.

“2782 Melody Drive?” she asked.

“Mmhm.” I answered.

She didn’t look particularly out of sorts, she was well-kempt, and both her eyes and her head appeared proportionate to her normally proportioned body.

“My name is Linette Sommerland,” she told me, and kept on, “I know it sounds a bit strange, but I’m in town on a rare occasion and I just had to stop by…”

“2782 Melody Drive?” I jump on her moment of pause.

“I grew up in this house.”

“Oh,” I said, “come on in!”

“I don’t mean to be a bother,” she said stepping across the threshold, “I was just in the neighborhood and driving past brought back so many memories, I couldn’t help but see if I could get a peek inside.”

“Well what do you think?” I asked, arms spread wide in the foyer.

“It looks the same… but different,” she wrinkled her brow as if to remember how it looked when she was growing up.

“When did you used to live here? I know the previous owners did quite a few home renovations, they added a sun room, and painted the…”

“A long time ago,” she interrupted.

“When you were a little girl?”

“Yes,” she answered, distracted, as she peered over my shoulder to scan the living room behind me. Then she nearly shoved me aside to get past.

“The living room…” she noted, pacing the room, swiveling her head to look around; standing on her tippy toes to peer behind the TV, getting on all fours to get a look under the couch, really reminiscing about each and every inch of the place.

“Where are the bedrooms?” she asked finally, obviously in a hurry to move on to even better, more personal memories; of girlhood and sleepovers and teenage angst and dreams.

“They’re upstairs,” I told her.

She didn’t respond but nearly shoved me aside again to rush up the stairs.

I followed and Chief waited at the bottom, looking up.

Linette made her way into the master bedroom, my bedroom. I’d spruced that room up a bit as well, sneaking in little hints of yellow to offset the dark brown wood of the antique furniture.

She stroked her chin as she paced the room, turning back a few times to look over her shoulder to see if I was still standing in the doorway, watching her reminisce.

“I love this dresser,” she said, running her hand along its surface, smiling at me in it’s big attached mirror, “It looks so vintage! Are the drawers all original?”

“Yes!” I told her, “The previous owners took impeccable care of all their things. You almost can’t even tell they’re hand me downs!”

“Wow!” she whispered in awe before beginning to open each drawer to admire the craftmanship inside.

She reminisced over the closet that used to be her mother’s, about the things she used to keep on the top shelf, behind where all my purses are, about hiding things in the pockets of her mother’s jackets and shoes. She reminisced about climbing under the bed as a little girl and about lifting the mattress, re-enacting it all for me as she went along.

“Where’s my old bedroom?” she asked finally.

“Down the hall, but it’s my art studio now,” I said smugly, “I guess I could show you all my some of my work.”

“Ok,” she answered and followed me down the hall to a room full of treasure, masterpieces and blank canvases I’d yet to fill – of splattered paint, blood, sweat and tears of both sadness and joy; tears of all emotions, endless years of..

“F-ck,” she blurted immediately upon entering, her eyes scanning the room, “this is going to take forever.”

She began lifting canvases, pushing them aside, looking under them, behind them. She must have really been trying to piece together how the room looked back in the day but to little avail, as I watch the frustration grow on her face.

“Screw this!” she said finally.

And without another word, she walked down the stairs and right out the front door.

Shortly after she was gone, and I was settled back into that frayed and patched-up armchair, surrounded by sun beams, with Chief at my feet, snoring loudly enough to compete with a grown man or jet liner– another knock rattled the door, jolting me once again from the indent I was sat in.

I jumped up, wondering who else could have possibly had the sudden urge to visit 2782 Melody Drive today.

I peered through the peephole. It was a man in a neon yellow reflective vest, with a neon yellow construction helmet and a clipboard in hand.

“Yes?” I asked through a crack in the door.

“2782 Melody Drive?” he asked.

“Mmhm,” I answered.

“You must be Ms. Uh…” he studied his clipboard.

“Lustig,” I told him.

“Ms. Lustig!” he found it on his clipboard, “I’m from the home owner’s association…”

The crack grew thinner and thinner as he continued.

“and I’m here to do a routine inspection of your water heater.”

“Oh,” I said, “come on in!”

“Thank you!” he smiled, adjusting his mustache as he stepped over the threshold.

“I’m going to need full access to the basement,” he told me.

“Okay, great! Follow me!” I said as I made my way towards the basement, Chief hobbling behind us, trying to keep up.

“It’s not much of a basement,” I told him as we descended the stairs, “It’s mostly cobwebs and old boxes – and the water heater of course. I always dreamed of cleaning it up and making it into my art studio.”

“Oh wow,” he turned towards the towers of boxes as we reached the bottom “quite a bit of stuff down here.”

“I know! I’ve been here a little over a year, and I still haven’t even made a dent in it!” I told him excitedly, “It’s from the previous owners, they were collectors of just about everything! I’ve found some crazy things in there! Old China, and dolls, records and coins, probably 20 lamps, but also some real treasures, like…”

“This is going to take me a while,” he interrupted, “no need to hang out down here, you can just head upstairs and go about your day.”

“Great!” I said and headed back to the sun room, but before I could even reach my favorite, plaid armchair, there was another knock at the door.

Who else could want to visit 2782 Melody Drive today?

I peered through the peephole. It was an older lady, draped in black clothing, her wild gray hair flowing from underneath a black headband, adorned with a large crystal broche in its center.

I opened the door just a tad, “Yes?”

“This is 2782 Melody Drive,” she told me.

Her fingers were so full of rings that you could only see the tips of her long yellow fingernails as she put them to her temple and closed her eyes.

“There is something evil in this house. I can sense it. You need my help!”

“Something evil?” I gasped, “come on in!”

She stepped over the threshold and into the foyer, hand still on her temple.

Without a word – but with a bit of groaning— she made her way through the living room, her groans growing louder, her eyes still closed with her other arm outstretched in front of her as we approached the steel door leading out to garage.

She stopped right in front of it.

“Can you feel that?” she asked turning to me.

I thought I could.

“Yes!”

Chief stood at my feet looking bored.

“It’s a demon spirit!” she explained vaguely, in a hurry, “somehow it got stuck between worlds, and ended up trapped in your garage. We must perform an emergency exorcism!”

She told me to gather supplies quickly, that I needed to find a white candle, a bowl of salt water, a lighter and a bundle of sage for her to be able to properly exorcise the demon.

I quickly obeyed and scurried from room to room searching for these exorcism necessities. I mixed salt into a bowl of tap water and grabbed a lighter, but I couldn’t find the others, so instead I had to improvise. I managed to find a fireless candle and some dried bay leaves to use in their places.

I ran back to the laundry room where the exorcist was waiting at the garage door. I told her of the dilemma, but being psychic, she already knew. She had begun to look around to see if she could find a white candle somewhere under the stacks of old towels and folded linens.

She decided finally that we would make do with what we had.

I huddled behind her as she reached for the door knob.

I jumped as she opened it, but there was nothing. There was no gush of ice cold wind or demonic laughter or anything out of sorts, just my car and all the junk that lined the walls.

The spirit must have been hiding, she told me, and he could jump out at any minute. She told me that it was best if I just go back inside and close the door.

But this is my house, so I followed closely behind her as she stepped into the garage, closing the steel, seemingly demon-proof door behind us. I was ready to take on any trespassing spirits by any means necessary. And so I decided we were going to get it before it could get us.

I pulled the lighter out of my pocket and took it to the little stack of bay leaves I held in my fingers tips. The smoke came quickly and heavily, filling the whole garage in a few seconds. As it became even thicker and heavier, I threw the bay leaves to the ground and stomped them out before running, eyes burning, to open the garage door.

The psychic coughed and yelled and cursed, but I heard not a peep from the demon as the smoke poured out into the open air from underneath the garage door. I had flushed him out.

“Hello, hello!” I then heard an unfamiliar voice growing closer as the garage door ascended.

I made my way outside, into the fresh, oxygenated air where I was met by a well-dressed young man, in slacks and pointed leather shoes.

“Jeff Sawyer,” he held out his hand to shake mine.

Mine was covered in soot.

“Are you looking for 2782 Melody Drive?”

“I sure am, are you the owner?”

“Mmhm.”

“I just wanted to let you know how much an outdated kitchen brings down the value of a home, can we check yours out?”

Before I could invite him in, the front door burst open, and the yellow vested water heater inspector came out mustache-less and hollering about smoke pouring in through the only window to the basement and how he could have died from smoke inhalation, asking us to imagine what would happen if the water heater had caught fire.

“Risking my life for nothing!” he directed the comment, angrily, towards the handsome, young real estate appraiser, “I bet the old man didn’t even leave nothing here!”

“A million dollars split 4 ways,” the older lady added, coughing as she slowly made her way out of the garage, “wouldn’t even pay for my reverse mortgage if you had to add my funeral costs on top of it!”

“Is that what this is about?” I asked, interrupting their bickering.

All three necks spun and jerked so quickly in my direction, you would have thought the force would have been enough to snap their necks.

“You… know?” the real estate appraiser asked, the color draining from his face.

Of course I knew. I’d been sitting in that armchair day after day for over a year. And money isn’t very soft or malleable when it’s put in stacks that thick. I had to cut through the bottom to get it all out-- and it left the perfect imprint, exactly my size. And it became my favorite armchair.

“And… where is it now?”

“Look around!” I told him, “You should have seen this place before. I had paint the living room, buy new towels for the bathroom, accessorize the…”

I don’t think any of them realized the cost of monsteras, either.