When I was a wee babe my first room was in an old farmhouse. It had a wooden tongue and groove ceiling. And was creepy as hell. To put it mildly.
My earliest memory is standing in my crib, screaming for help. And no one coming. There were “things” in my room. Unexplainable things. Evil things. That came down through the hole in the ceiling. It had a cover but often in the morning, it was moved. My parents always tried to tell me it was squirrels in the attic. They were mistaken, of course. There were never squirrels any other time. Or any evidence of rodents in the attic. No, it was not squirrels. It was “things.”
It’s been suggested that the hole was a fireplace flue. Hmm. I don’t think so. The farmhouse was very small and the chimney was on the other side. It’s not very likely that such a structure would have two fireplaces. And there was no corresponding hole down through the floor so I’d say that idea is out.
If that weren’t creepy enough for a tiny tot this pair of taxidermied ducks hung on the wall above my crib. Yeah. Who does that?
The saving grace of the room was the windowsill. It was about sixteen inches deep and safe. I can’t tell you how many nights I spent on the windowsill. It protected me from the “things.” I went back there today, to take these photos and it was very tempting to crawl up on it. Yes, there is still evil in that house and no, no one else seems to feel it.
What is wrong with those people?