Though he couldn't seem to pass up number 211 without staring, Ian didn't have time to obsess about the house that might or might not be haunted. He had more important things to worry about, like his dad's health. To think that at the beginning of his summer break, he didn't even know about his dad's cancer. His father dragged his feet and only told Ian that he wasn't feeling well.
"The doctors are doing tests. But I probably just caught a bug," he said.
The truth was his dad had just been diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer, but he didn't want Ian to worry.
Ian was in shock for weeks after he found out. His dad always had trouble giving him any kind of bad news. When his parents were splitting up, it was his mom who told him what was happening. This time, Ian had to call her to let her know what was going on with his dad. He barely managed to get the words out. They stuck in his throat and choked him.
The thought that he might lose his dad scared him more than anything ever had before. But as long as there was still even a slim chance, Ian had to get his shit together and help him fight. He drove his dad to his chemo sessions and then took care of him when he got home.
The whole time, his dad never stopped trying to convince him he was OK, always saying he could manage on his own. He was pushing Ian to go back to school. Looking so pale and weak, he was telling him he was doing fine.
He did it again today. "I'm OK. You really don't need to worry about me. It's not too late for you to go back to school." The man was like a broken record, but he meant well.
"You're a funny guy, Dad. I'm going to make you some ginger lemon tea. But while you're trying to get rid of me, you remember what's waiting for you in that jar." Opening the refrigerator, Ian pointed to the grape jelly jar in the back of the top shelf. It was Mrs. Lincer's homemade spice tea concentrate. Every spice known to man was in there, and the result was vile.
His dad made a face, remembering the taste. He was sitting in the window seat off the kitchen. When it was warmer, he would sit on the back porch. Now the window seat was the closest thing to his favorite spot. He liked the view of the meadow in the back of their house.
While he made the tea, Ian thought that's what his father was looking at. Then he realized his dad was checking out his own reflection in the glass. As long as Ian could remember, his dad's hair had always been thin. Chemo had left him with so little, he just shaved it all off.
"I think I look better with no hair. Sort of like Vin Diesel, right?" his dad said.
"Right this minute, I can't even tell you apart. I was just asking myself, 'Should I make an extra cup of tea for Vin Diesel or what?' Dad, you're blowing my mind. It's like you're twins."
His dad grinned at him. He was trying so hard to keep up his own spirits and Ian's too. The least he could do was return the favor.
As his dad dozed off, Ian straightened up a little around the house. His dad was never good at picking up after himself, and now he didn't have the energy. Looking around for what needed to be done, Ian took in the familiar, old place.
The house was Dad's family home going back several generations. He was really attached to it and its history. That was no wonder. Dad was a professional history buff. The Civil War was his specialty. Until he got sick, he had made a living writing books about it and giving lectures. He often took Ian with him on his research trips and lecture tours. Then it was back home to write his heart out.
Ian didn't share his passion for writing, history, or even the house where he grew up. During his childhood, the house was an obstacle course of old furniture with a banister he wasn't allowed to slide down, but he did anyway. But being so old, it was no surprise that the house was a little gloomy. That's how it seemed to Ian anyway, especially after his mom moved away. He was in high school then and splitting his time between his dad's place and his mom's. The contrast between their houses didn't do his dad's house any favors.
For the last two years, Ian had spent most of his time away at school. It was weird to be back here. Not just at the house though. Inside the house and for miles around, all the way into Blystone, Ian had scattered bits and pieces of his childhood.
The pieces of his childhood that obsessed him right now had to do with that house, number 211. As he was growing up, he remembered it sitting abandoned, surrounded by an overgrown yard. With its gates chained shut, it called to any adventurous boy or girl to jump the fence if they dared.
Ian had done it only once. What happened after he went over the fence was unclear to him. The garden was cool and dark. The trees and bushes had grown big. Rising high above an eight-year-old boy's head, they smothered the sunlight.
But it couldn't have been as dark and cold as he remembered. Wasn't it summer? And why couldn't he breathe? Ian tried to remember, but it was murky. He hit a blank wall when he tried to focus on the memory. He did remember running away from there, scared, breathless, not stopping until he got home.