“There’s a haunted house nearby,” I sometimes say to a friend in the car late at night.
They scoff, but all of them indicate their interest, “Where is it?”.
“Down a road that leads off this main road”.
We take the detour.
“Haunted? By what? Who?”
“I’m not sure, " I say, “but a friend knew one of the owners and he calls it, ‘The Vampire House.’”
“Really?”. No ladies in white, knockings or footsteps. Vampires.Haemoglobin addicts romanticized by mainstream pop culture.
“Stop here!” I say and slap the dashboard. We’re outside the house. Low garden walls, empty driveway,overgrown grass and shuttered windows. Are the shutters meant to keep something in or out? A ‘For Sale’ sign affixed to the front gate, and the contact number is long faded. We wait. My friend dares me to get out of the car.I always walk up to the gate and knock. We scramble back inside. My friend drives away,grateful for the free thrill.
But I’ve been lucky so far: one night I’ll knock and get an answer. From the current occupants.