House
in the Woods
I was travelling with my daughter in a mini-sized train. My father
and mother passed us by in the same kind of modern locomotive. Very
quickly we managed to greet each other.
We
were on our way to the house where my parents had just come from.
The house was located in the middle of a forest, near the suburbs.
My folks had recently bought an apartment there. The house in the
woods was part of the trade. We could have it for private use for
as long as we wanted. This seemed luxurious to me, taking into account
how many people lived in the area. Still that secluded house was reserved
just for our family.
We
stepped out of the train and walked to the house. It was actually
a kind of storage or shelter. The walls were concrete, but my parents
had managed to make it cozy by decorating the space with old furniture,
rugs and paintings. The house also included electronics such as radio,
record player and a computer. You could easily spend a nice evening
there or even stay for the night.
Sanchu
had to pee, so we rushed to the toilet. This was located in a closet,
which was small but adequate for the purpose.
After
this, she went to the bookshelf and picked up a comic book. In the
meanwhile, old-fashioned music filled the room, as I put a CD on.
Sanchu then picked up another comic. These were not related, but apparently
they told the same story. It was about a man who wrote poems and fictional
stories in the 18th century. The poet had an extremely good ear for
form and rhythm, and he spent endless amounts of time fixing other
writers' poems in order to get them 'perfect'. He knew, however, that
all this work was useless. The 'corrected' poems would never be published.
Strictly
speaking, the comics did not tell the story in this way. They included
fictional characters such as Captain Hook and Jiminy Cricket but,
nevertheless, such an outline formed in the reader's mind. This seemed
remarkable to the extent that I started to pay attention to this.
It could not be a coincidence that the same story was repeated in
two different magazines. It was as if someone had specifically pushed
those issues to us so that we would learn something important.
The
atmosphere was oppressive, and I wanted out of the house. Sanchu had
yet to put on her jacket, and this seemed to take some time. I put
the music off. But it did not stay away: the radio came on by itself.
Clearly
the house was haunted. Perhaps the poet from the 1700s was still living
here, and most likely he was hostile to strangers. So, in a hurry,
we ran out of the house.
