Part 1: A Tour that couldn't be refused
In the long-since passed year of 1982, I was a shy 12-year old boy living with my unusually eccentric grandparents. In my possession was an insatiable young curiosity that often brought daily wonders and joys, but also misery and fright at times, and yet it was a part of me no matter which flavor it took.
Living there with them, I was relaxed and stress-free. Each day I was teaching myself basic juggling, as I watched my relatives go about their own inscrutable doings. I loved my slow-moving grandfather Arty far more than he ever seemingly loved me. Hanging upon his every word and gesture was a personal joy and comfort to me. He had a quiet soothing manner about him.
My grandfather Arty was a calm sort of gentleman, sitting next to him seemed soporific. He could sit silently for hours, puffing on his beloved wooden pipe, and relax any soul in his presence. The creak of his leather chair, the pleasant cherry-tobacco scent of his pipe, the quiet folding of his daily paper, these were all wonderfully cathartic. As well as being a very wholesome environment for a young boy to grow up amidst. There was no sin in their household, nor pretension-just simple daily living, pure and simply comfortable.
Arty rarely spoke and always kept it short.
Once sitting at the breakfast table, I once innocently asked "Are you a tough guy gramps?"
He looked straight into my eyes: “Johnny, I’m so damned tough I can eat nails for breakfast, I just rather not, they taste bad”. The result? A hearty laugh from his only adoring grandchild. With that infectious eager joy only the young can seem to express properly. My laughter started Arty laughing as well. This was for what passed for humor at the meal table.
As it turned out, in the large corner house next to ours the sole resident and owner suddenly died one week.
It was a full three-story dark-colored house, and quite old. The freshly deceased owner was a personal friend of Arty for at least 30 years, perhaps much more. I’d often witness them taking slow morning walks together. I'd watch from the porch sometimes, and they didn’t seem to actually talk, just shuffled-along and puffed flavored-tobacco together in pipes, satisfied in sharing their mutual silence. Like two old retired sea captains, puffing away together long after both their ships have sunk to the depths.
I don’t recall his name but had seen him before on many occasions, and he lived completely alone in that immense place and had no living family. From what Arty told me, he had lived in that same house for over 70 years since he was a child; It was an old house and existed there almost as long as my own family’s place since the late 1800s. My grandfather Arty and his friend would meander down Prospect Street, like two slow-moving wrinkled living smokestacks, quietly puffing away-content within their own mutually silent company.
They were a curious duo, and Arty never mentioned how they met long ago. I often wonder that perhaps they were so comfortable with each other that they didn’t need to talk anymore, just nod mutually and walk. Perhaps everything that could be said between them had been spoken long ago. Either that or they were both possibly telepathic, I have no idea to this day.
So he died that week, and as it turns out Arty had previously been given a key to his house. They must have had some verbal agreement since his friend had no living family. Arty was welcome to come in, explore, and take anything he wanted before either the lawyers or the state took the property. This guy was literally the last of his line, as I am many years later writing this tale. It’s a lonely place, and I understand fully now, but it’s life as usual for me. At least the owner had Arty for friendship in his last days.
So that weekend, even though my grandfather didn’t seem overly broken up about his friend’s death, he invited me and my new uncle Tucker (my Aunt Linda’s husband) to join him and explore this large old house, and take whatever we’d like. What an irresistible offer for both a young 12-year-old boy that was always fascinated with old mysteries, and my newly minted Uncle Tucker, a good guy in his 30s, whom I instinctually liked.
He looked exactly like the actor William Katt but with thick glasses. Same curly blonde hair, kind eyes and the same general features, and a similar gentle disposition. He was always nice to me, but I have very few memories of him sadly. The event that follows is one such unique memory.
It was Friday night, and both Aunt Linda and her husband Tucker plus my great aunt Red and uncle Sonny were visiting us. When Arty walked in and suddenly invited all of us to join him in exploring the house next door, only Tucker and I seemed truly curious and bold enough to join his small escapade.
The rest of my family bid us all good luck with nods and casually dismissive waves while going back to their coffee, conversations, and endless arguments. We three curious males representing three different generations left via the front inner stairway and headed outside. We walked a mere few steps next door to the dark corner house that seemed to loom there in the night patiently awaiting our curious intrusion.
We represented the old, the young, and the in-between, united by a simple desire: to see something interesting. What we found, however, was far more unexpected than any of us could have imagined.
