1
February 11th, 1968
The Amelia Leech Home is haunted by those who lived and died here. Decades of
terror permeate. Hopeless cries erupt from behind bolted doors.
I hear whispers when walking up stairs after sundown. I’ve seen figures out of the corner of my eye—passing by a window—or by an open door. The dead in perpetual anguish.
Living residents are tormented as well. There are bullies and thieves—stealing from my room—destroying things dear to me. My good wool blazer has vanished. Photographs of
my family kept on my bureau have been smeared with feces. I’ve learned to hide what’s sacred behind wooden planks in my closet.
My room is small. I sleep on a shabby bed. There’s a small bureau near a grimy window and an old braided rug in the middle of the
scratched wooden floor. My room is one of many in this monstrous structure.
My father sent me here. He wants my pregnancy hidden. He says the baby has to be adopted once it’s born. He told me, “I don’t want people mocking you. We’ll deal with it as best as we can.”
My mother cries a lot. She swears a trio of soothsayers have come to claim a
satanic debt.
My sisters are silent most times.
I’m not like them. I need to do what’s right for me. I don’t care what people think.
I’m almost twenty—older than most of the girls here. I can work as a waitress and get government
assistance. I am prepared for a life of ridicule and poverty.
I touch my stomach and think about where I came from. I wonder where I’m headed.
Is that the wind howling—or something crying out from the bowels of this house? I’m terrified of night and I regret things I’ve done.
I wish I’d never met Ken, that I’d never agreed to go with him on that steamy day in August, but I was lonely,
tired of spending nights with my mother while my father wagered bets and
shuffled cards in smoky back rooms. I wonder what evil alliances he made over
the years and if my flesh and blood has been offered in sacrifice.
* * *
I am the youngest of three girls. My first memories are of days spent living in
a tenement house on the poor side of town. I remember my sisters Beth and Jen
going to school in early morning. My mother worked in the city’s only surviving soap factory. Sometimes she put in ten hour days. Back then my
father stayed home, took care of the house and made sure we were fed.
My toys were handed down from my sisters. My only friend was my father when my
sisters were not around.
Dad and I would sit in our living room after the house had been cleaned and the
breakfast dishes done. There were stacks of books piled at his side. He’d read to me, but I didn’t understand the words, or exotic names he pronounced. After lunch he’d climb up to the attic, with me at his heels. Vague memories of burning candles
and the smell of dampness still linger. An odd piece of jewelry, with even
odder symbols, hung around my dad’s neck. Sometimes he’d remove a ceramic figure from beneath a wrinkled scarf. Terra Cotta. Painted
face and long graceful limbs. Creepy, mysterious and beautiful all at once.
“What are you doing, Daddy?” I’d asked him.
“Praying to angels. Lailah is your guardian angel. She watched over you when you
were born,” he’d tell me and then he’d begin to read from an old book.
Sometimes orbs of light floated over his head. Most times everything was silent
and he’d snuff out the candles only to make his way back downstairs.
I don’t know if he continued his prayers as I grew older. I only know he began to go
out nightly after my mother’s heart attack. He grew quiet, distant and reluctantly did odd jobs during the
day.
Always before midnight I’d hear his footsteps on the attic stairs. I wondered if his vigils turned darker
when I heard sounds erupting from the attic and saw dark shapes drifting by my
window.
Years went by. Diabetes and rheumatoid arthritis added to my mother’s already
February 11th, 1968
The Amelia Leech Home is haunted by those who lived and died here. Decades of
terror permeate. Hopeless cries erupt from behind bolted doors.
I hear whispers when walking up stairs after sundown. I’ve seen figures out of the corner of my eye—passing by a window—or by an open door. The dead in perpetual anguish.
Living residents are tormented as well. There are bullies and thieves—stealing from my room—destroying things dear to me. My good wool blazer has vanished. Photographs of
my family kept on my bureau have been smeared with feces. I’ve learned to hide what’s sacred behind wooden planks in my closet.
My room is small. I sleep on a shabby bed. There’s a small bureau near a grimy window and an old braided rug in the middle of the
scratched wooden floor. My room is one of many in this monstrous structure.
My father sent me here. He wants my pregnancy hidden. He says the baby has to be adopted once it’s born. He told me, “I don’t want people mocking you. We’ll deal with it as best as we can.”
My mother cries a lot. She swears a trio of soothsayers have come to claim a
satanic debt.
My sisters are silent most times.
I’m not like them. I need to do what’s right for me. I don’t care what people think.
I’m almost twenty—older than most of the girls here. I can work as a waitress and get government
assistance. I am prepared for a life of ridicule and poverty.
I touch my stomach and think about where I came from. I wonder where I’m headed.
Is that the wind howling—or something crying out from the bowels of this house? I’m terrified of night and I regret things I’ve done.
I wish I’d never met Ken, that I’d never agreed to go with him on that steamy day in August, but I was lonely,
tired of spending nights with my mother while my father wagered bets and
shuffled cards in smoky back rooms. I wonder what evil alliances he made over
the years and if my flesh and blood has been offered in sacrifice.
* * *
I am the youngest of three girls. My first memories are of days spent living in
a tenement house on the poor side of town. I remember my sisters Beth and Jen
going to school in early morning. My mother worked in the city’s only surviving soap factory. Sometimes she put in ten hour days. Back then my
father stayed home, took care of the house and made sure we were fed.
My toys were handed down from my sisters. My only friend was my father when my
sisters were not around.
Dad and I would sit in our living room after the house had been cleaned and the
breakfast dishes done. There were stacks of books piled at his side. He’d read to me, but I didn’t understand the words, or exotic names he pronounced. After lunch he’d climb up to the attic, with me at his heels. Vague memories of burning candles
and the smell of dampness still linger. An odd piece of jewelry, with even
odder symbols, hung around my dad’s neck. Sometimes he’d remove a ceramic figure from beneath a wrinkled scarf. Terra Cotta. Painted
face and long graceful limbs. Creepy, mysterious and beautiful all at once.
“What are you doing, Daddy?” I’d asked him.
“Praying to angels. Lailah is your guardian angel. She watched over you when you
were born,” he’d tell me and then he’d begin to read from an old book.
Sometimes orbs of light floated over his head. Most times everything was silent
and he’d snuff out the candles only to make his way back downstairs.
I don’t know if he continued his prayers as I grew older. I only know he began to go
out nightly after my mother’s heart attack. He grew quiet, distant and reluctantly did odd jobs during the
day.
Always before midnight I’d hear his footsteps on the attic stairs. I wondered if his vigils turned darker
when I heard sounds erupting from the attic and saw dark shapes drifting by my
window.
Years went by. Diabetes and rheumatoid arthritis added to my mother’s already
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