The House - 2

Inside, the house smelled musty. I had entered through the side porch. It was cool and dark. The shades were down and I pulled them up to let in the natural light of the day. I walked through the house, opening the shades and pulling back drapes as I went. It was dusty and I sneezed. There were rooms after rooms and all of them had that abandoned smell. You can’t smell it when you live in it because it is the smell of silence. It is the smell of a lack of movement of oxygen and carbon dioxide. The smell of stillness. The only activity being a few bluebottles or green flies in the windows but most of them had died by the looks of it. You can only smell that smell when you walk into a room which has not seen life for awhile. You go on vacation and stay away a few nights and when you come back your house has begun to have that smell. Once you are in it again you disturb every corner with your movements and that smell goes away. I walked slowly around each room, careful not to disturb the dust which was quite thick. I was quite sure that there was no more dust falling and that all that was in the air was now on every surface. I imagined what each room was for and who had moved around in it. What they may have done and who they were. This room was obviously a reading room as books lined the shelves and several books lay on tables and even some piled on the floor as though it were too much effort to rise and put it back on the shelf. There was one book still open and laid on the seat of the Queen Anne chair. Perhaps that was Grandma’s chair. There was no television in any of the rooms on the lower floor. I was surprised. I thought that perhaps there would be a couple of Lazy-boy chairs together in one of the rooms and a television. I expected to find a couple of chairs set together with piles of things gathered up around and pills and hospital type stuff gathered around. But I kept walking through the house and I didn’t find anything like that. There was a large room surrounded by windows on the south side of the house. It had several planters with what looked like the remains of plants. The conservatory. I remembered it. It was obvious that no one had been in here for a long time. There was a large comfortable chair in the room. I remember sitting on Grandpas knee in this room while he told tales of places far away and jungles teaming with life and how he had gone to live with a tribe in the jungle and learn their ways and tell them about a God who is over all gods, who loves them and cares. He told of plants and animals. I remembered how captivating his stories were and how I had imagined being in a jungle when I was in that room. It was a beautiful room, round like a semi-circle with a door at each end of the long wall. Grandpa’s chair in the middle. I walked on through the conservatory and ended up in the kitchen. It was a large kitchen and there were several things out on the counters as though it had been abandoned quickly. There was a table in the middle of the room and an armchair in one corner. I couldn’t turn the lights on or use the appliances since there had been no electric service to the house for quite some time. I dared not open the fridge but knew I would have to do that eventually. For now I didn’t want to disturb anything. I had planned to get what I came for and spend the night at a nearby hotel, but now I found myself changing my mind. This feeling of being at home was so strong. I felt comfortable here even though it was all so strange. I wanted to see everything and touch everything and explore again. The stairs wound around a beautiful mosaic floor. It was even darker upstairs but I found the first door and opened it and let the light in the window. I went through the upstairs rooms and let light in all the windows, then I went up another flight of stairs and let light in up there as well. Back downstairs in my grandparents room I sat on the bed. History crowded into my head as I looked around the room. The history of the people who had lived here and worked here. The children who were born here right in this room and the family who had died here and the tears and joys of generations growing and living together and being a family. My own tears mixing into the history of all the people I belonged to, people I didn’t know and those I did. I wanted to know more about them. I wished I had really known my Grandmother. The last few weeks of holding on to her had been tiring and bewildering. I lay down and let the tears flow. I don’t know how long I slept, but I still had my coat on and it had grown dark outside. I got my phone out and checked the time. It was the wee hours and I could sleep some more. I took my coat off and lay it over me, my shoes on the floor my phone in my hand and I slept. When I woke again the sun was just beginning to rise. I could see through the window that it would be a nice day for a drive. The town wasn’t too far away and I can get some coffee there before I leave. I will have to get the utilities turned on before I head out. I had put a few granola bars in my purse and there were some snacks still in the car from the long drive. I sat outside on the hood of my car and watched the sun rise over the fields while I ate an apple and a granola bar. It was beautiful.

Elizabeth Williams, daily writing exercise, 1,058 words.

Previous chapter of The House:   The House 1

To read the next chapters:  The House 3 , The House 4 , The House 5 , The House 6, The House 7, The House 8

Where We Lived

It’s interesting how a home, a property which we knew as children and young adults can have a grounding effect on us. It can be calming and peaceful to return to a place which we once knew and interacted with. Perhaps it was our home or a friends home or a field where we played. It could be the school, perhaps for some people who’s schooling was a good experience. It could be a town, a type of lifestyle once lived. It is always some place in the past where character was developed and understandings formed. It may not have always been a pleasant situation but it was ours, or it was where we were. I remember the house we lived in in England when I was young. I don’t know very much at all about why we were there or what my parents were doing. I remember being told that my father was a telephone operator for awhile and that my sister would pick up the phone so that she could talk to him. I don’t remember that, I was only told it. I don’t remember the other places we lived before that, I was three when we moved to that house. I remember other things about it, things that mattered to me, things about that house which involved me. There were eight of us children at that time and when any one of us travels back to England we always try to drive by that house and stop to take a look. Something about seeing it, even though it is so changed is healing and peaceful. We take pictures and send them around to the family. The house was called ‘The Laurels’. There are other places in our family but many families had one main childhood home. Usually a family will move from home to home as they work on finding the place best suited to them. Perhaps they will rent at first and move to different rentals trying to find out which home best suits their style. Some day they will buy their home and settle down. It may be difficult for some children to identify with a childhood place if there were too many moves. It may well be a school or a park or a vacation spot which is that place for them. I raised the children in a small house at the edge of a factory town in the heart of a farming community. Later we moved to the place we are now. It was a difficult move for them and they still feel connected to that first house. They have a lot of memories there. I also took them to Canada in the summertime where they most likely have some great memories. Now they are building lives of their own and raising children of their own. Their children will be forming their own ties. They are forming attachments to places and homes. Places which will draw them back when they are older, to discover something about themselves which only their inner child knows. This is what I find happening when I begin to write. I find myself writing about places I once knew. I’m not writing about the home I now have. I write about places my childhood knew and the feelings which arise from that childhood. I am finding out something about myself by reaching down deep into those memories. I feel a grounding, a peace and security in connecting with a place from long ago where I was free. Free from responsibility and care. Free from adulthood. The mind processes everything differently in childhood, being immune yet to the concerns of this world. Money is not more than a toy to a child. A child’s purse may have a coin and a rock and a piece of ribbon and each are equally valuable to the child. If asked to keep only one thing, it very well may be the rock which is kept. Whether the family is rich or poor makes no difference to the child who lives whatever is expected. I had one play dress, one school uniform and one Sunday outfit when I was a child. I had school shoes and play shoes. I didn’t know what other people did because we never owned a television and all the children at school dressed in the same uniform. We didn’t get new clothes every year. I didn’t question this because it didn’t matter. It wasn’t even the actual house which was important to me. The closet at the bottom of the stairs though friendly and large during the day was brimming with monsters at night and the basement was the scariest place of all. Even the rats at the back of the yard didn’t scare me like the basement. It was the business involved in growing up and living with the others in the home which was important. The games we played, the battles we fought. The banister I slid down, only to be greeted by a wooden spoon and my father at the bottom. The short flight and thrill were worth every stripe. There were other homes that hold the same and maybe more for me, since that home. I don’t really think consciously about these places, but when I write I find myself digging around in the memories of the walls of these places. Pulling out the feelings and convictions of my childhood soul. A place where hopes and dreams were bountiful. Where the whole future is ahead and yet unknown and possibilities soared. A place and time in which I had not yet been crushed and broken. A time where I was me completely. A time when I was proud to be me. A beginning not yet governed by the voices of culture and religious views, where everything I wanted to be was possible. That’s where I keep finding myself when I write. Perhaps I’m looking for something there. Perhaps I’m looking for the me I was meant to be.

Elizabeth Williams, writing exercise, 1,003 words.

Lost Words

Lost. I write that like it’s a whole sentence because sometimes it is. It’s not loss. Loss is a different subject entirely which has to do with grief. It’s lost. Lost is an experience I’ve had a lot in my life. Not me so much, I wasn’t lost, although that was questionable at times, I always knew where I was. Perhaps other people thought I was lost. God always knew where I was and so did I. I got lost in Buffalo NY one time. I was driving to Canada with my four younger children and I missed the exit and took a different one thinking I could back track. It wasn’t that simple and the streets I found myself on weren’t on the map. This was well before the days of cell phones and GPS.

I’ve had the experience a lot where something is lost, reaching for something which isn’t there any more and turning the house upside down looking for it only to realize that I was looking for something which belonged to me in a different time of my life. I spent a good part of my thirties and forties looking for things. Every once in awhile I go through everything and get rid of stuff. A lot of people do that. Then you miss it and wonder where it is, perhaps forgetting that it went to Good Will. Maybe if you are like me you search and search for it. But I always end up again with too much stuff. Moving is a time when I always parted with a lot of things. Some things I regretted getting rid of later. I have decided not to move again.

Things are important. Don’t listen to people who tell you that things aren’t important. Things connect us to each other and we use things to communicate love and care. We don’t live here on this earth without things. Losing things can be very upsetting and unsettling. Children relate to the things around them and are sensitive to things being moved or removed. Things are important. Usually the sentiment behind a thing is the important part. It is what connects us to memories and other people in our lives. I have a china cabinet full of things which conjure up memories of childhoods lived with me and the love and creativity of little ones. Yes, things are important. Losing things can be considered loss. Things can also have a lot to do with our emotional well-being.

Losing words is a different type of loss. When words are lost they may never be retrieved and can not be replaced. I’ve had the experience of discovering some words in just the order to inspire a whole world of creative thoughts and not captured them on paper or i-note and then lose them completely by the time I get to a paper and pencil. The whole thing is lost then. It was something special which can never be found again. It was the arrangement of a few words which conjured up a whole library of books from ones soul. It was that arrangement which expressed the exact balance of expression. It was the one time I felt that I could say it. I may be in the bathroom or in bed or out with the chickens or at the park, or in church at the grocery store or on a bike ride. It may be an idea, or a revelation about a character or the path a story should proceed. It is something hidden from the past boldly reaching out to the page. It is that thing which doesn’t come from intellect or research. It doesn’t come from brain storming. It comes only by it’s own will from the subconscious to the conscious and only for a brief moment. If I’m not ready, if I don’t repeat it out loud or write it quickly down, it becomes lost, forever. Gone. I can think and think and think, but it will not return. This is the plight of a writer such as myself. Being ready with pencil and paper. I’ve been noticing a common thread among the literature I’ve been reading, that the writer draws from a well. Writing opens the well and one must let it flow. The well will replenish itself as it empties but if it is not captured it will dry up. Too much thought into the actual inspired words will dry the well up. As I write I become a better writer. Sure I need to do my learning as well, but that is more for polish than anything. Everything I need as a writer is down in that well. It is coming from a lifetime of experiences, some of them too painful to tell, but opening that well and letting it flow will tap into those places which are hidden. This is what I’m learning as I begin to write. Those things too painful to remember and those good things in the past which are hidden by pain affect the quality of the words which come out as one writes and in time as one continues to write. Thinking too much can sometimes stifle the flow of words from the well. It’s kind of like all the filters on the water lines between our well and our drinking water. A lot is lost on the way. With drinking water that’s a good thing we don’t want that stuff anyway. But in writing it’s not good. Those things which are lost are the necessary things. The inspired things, they are the things which add color and life to an otherwise stale piece. Sometimes I think I’m afraid of the well and opening it up. But those moments when I don’t have a pencil and paper and a burst of words pops out keep me in awe of what is in there. I am trying to carry my i-phone with me at all times. If I don’t get a burst of words I can at least take pictures. 

Elizabeth Williams, writing exercise, 1,012 words.

An Awesome Day

Everyday I have big plans at the beginning of the day. Of course my first thought is to go back to bed and get some more sleep, but I know that won’t work because I’m already up. Going back to bed is like trying to get back to the same dream, it just doesn’t work like that. If I went back to bed now, I would try to get comfortable again, the kind of comfortable I just left. But my blood is flowing. It is coursing through my veins and I’ve already begun to sneeze the night dust out of my nose. I’ve already been around the property taking care of the birds and watering the plants, so I’m not in my pj’s anymore and there is dew on my feet. The only other option now is to decide to have an awesome day.

The day is new. Nothing has disturbed it yet. Some people wake up with disturbing things happening. Maybe a houseful of babies, hungry, wet and sometimes downright stinky. Crying and yelling and fighting. Some people are lucky to find a clean mug to have their coffee in when they wake up. And some people wake up not lucky enough to even have a cup of coffee. I’ve experienced all of the above at one time or another. But today nothing has disturbed the beauty of this new day for me. The people in the other situations can have an awesome day as well. Well they can decide to have an awesome day. So my day starts off perfectly. Coffee hot in the coffee maker, quiet all around me, electricity to run my computer. Don’t judge me, it’s not my fault it’s all so perfect. I’m just planning to enjoy it. I’m planning to write and then eat while I have Bible devotions. OK, so I should probably have devotions first, but have you ever tried that? You get up and decide no point going back to bed because if you lay down you will not be able to fall asleep nicely, so you have devotions. How is it that I can not fall asleep in my own bed after I’ve already abandoned it for morning chores but I can fall asleep instantly sitting up at the table trying to have devotions no problem at all? So I’m having devotions with breakfast. I read a few Bible verses from the church Bible Study Guide and some from my daily reading plan. Read the Bible in a year plan is now on the third year and not finished but I’m still plugging away at it. I like it because the Bible is a really big book and I don’t know what to read every day so a plan helps. It’s not like most books which have a logical order and story line. The Bible is made up of lots of stories and letters and genealogies and it’s all very interesting but some stuff is definitely more interesting than others so that’s why I use a plan. That way I will have read the entire Bible through some day.

I’m making plans for my day. I’m going to clean this dirty house from top to bottom. I’m going to whiz around in it for two hours and get it done. I’m going to get the ironing done and finish my weaving project, which I started last winter. I will spend time in the garden taking care of things there. I will do some more whizzing around the various flower beds to set them all in order and burn the weeds. All the windows need to be washed and the stairs are dirty. There are piles of stuff, I’m not sure what it all is, in every corner and between the corners. I will fill the trunk of the car with stuff to take to Good Will so that their will be less to take care of from now on. All the laundry will be done, folded and neatly put away. The toilet will shine. Oh, yes, I will have an awesome day. May even get to work peacefully on my new children’s picture book after I get all that done.

On facebook they have these things going around sometimes with a series of pictures depicting what ones life looks like from different points of view. If you use facebook then you know what I mean and I could stop writing right now because you’ll already know what happens in my day, but for those who don’t use facebook I’ll just have to tell you the truth.

There really isn’t any whizzing around going on here and their won’t be today or any day. Whizzing only works in Disney Movies and imaginations. Real life doesn’t have any of that. I wake Chloe up at 7:30am. From that point on my day is full of someone else’s chatter and ideas and busyness and my peaceful moment is a distant memory. It is as though it never happened. I will be challenged to remember what the most important things to do are. I will put two and the most three important tasks on my list for the day. Laundry and dishes. All right, picking ripe tomatoes and beans. If I manage that on top of the regular chores, duties and school work, and also manage to be nice to everybody and have dinner timely I will feel that the day was great. If I also get to deal with one pile or one of the other things on my wish list I will have had an awesome day. But if I manage to stay on task and accomplish anything at all while listening to the constant and engaging chatter of an eight year old I will feel amazing. And if I also manage this while walking around construction site type of tools and workman type clutter and disorganization I will feel like wonder woman. Today, I have decided, will be an awesome day, no matter what.

Elizabeth Williams, daily writing exercise, 1,005 words.

Book Review - August 13, 2014

Copycat, by Ruth Brown
Buddy, a young cat with a penchant for imitating everyone and everything around him, copies his mom, his sister, the squirrels, and the birds in the trees, but problems arise when he copies Bessie the dog.

Chloe checked this book out yesterday at the library.  What a fascinating book and with captivating pictures.  It is large. 11 1/2 inches tall by 10 inches wide.  Published in the US by Dutton Children's Books in 1994.

Also by Ruth Brown is The Picnic and One Stormy Night

This book is available to buy at Amazon.com in books or you can check it out at your local library.

Daisy and the Egg
Mama Duck and Aunt Buttercup are sitting on a new egg, and Daisy is eagerly awaiting the arrival of her new brother or sister. Days pass, and Daisy waits and waits . . . until she is finally awakened by a "Pip! Pip! Pip!" A story full of anticipation to which every older sibling can relate, "Daisy and the Egg" will surely be a hit with fans of this endearing duckling. Full color.

Chloe also checked out this book, Daisy and the Egg, by Jane Simmons.  Endearing pictures and a tale of courage and determination as well as patience.  Also a large book at 10 3/4" by 9 3/4".  The colors in this book are calming and cheery.  This book was published by Little, Brown Young Readers (February 1, 1999), and is available on Amazon.com or you can also check it out at your public library.

Also by Jane Simmons,
Quack Daisy QUACK
Come Along, Daisy!
Daisy and the Beastie
Daisy and the Moon
Go to Sleep, Daisy

Your public library may not have every book but you could always ask.  Some libraries let you look on-line and make requests.

Both of these books are older books and may be out of print.  They are still great books to read with children and have wonderful artwork.

The Library

I’m sitting here at my computer, in my home, feeling fairly safe and private. I do a Google search to find an answer to something we were wondering about yesterday. I find a lot of options in the search and choose one and then another. I make a note of the helpful stuff and save it for later. I may even print it out if it’s important enough to keep. Then I move over to Facebook. I always do that now. It’s just part of the whole internet thing, now-a-days. To the right side of the main body are a list of ever changing ads. I don’t usually pay attention to them but this time there is one on the exact subject I just did a search on. It’s Google. It’s everywhere on the internet.

I love the internet for the ease of finding information. When the older kids were young we didn’t have the internet. The internet was becoming available as the kids got older but when they were young it was the library. We had several dictionaries in our home and some encyclopedias. I taught them to look something up if they didn’t know and to be sure about what they thought they knew. If we needed to know more, then it was the weekly trip to the county library. The first library we went to in our town was in a very old historic building with rooms full of books, a sitting area, tall narrow windows and a reception desk in the center room. It was full of books and crowded. The town had been working on plans for a new library for years and had finally come to an agreement on the whole project. The plans were posted at the old library and at the new library building site and posted in the daily paper. It was an exciting time in our town. Our family was also excited. We followed along with the progress.

Finally the day came for the books to be moved to the new building. Many of the books in the old building weren’t important enough to move so they had a sale and the kids and I went down there and bought as many as we could afford. Of course I had to go home and build a bookshelf to hold them all. We were at the new library for its opening week. It was beautiful. Large open spaces and plenty of light. The children’s books were on short shelves which you could see easily over and the lounge area for the kids was colorful and imaginative. We loved it. I could browse books of interest to me and watch the kids. I was interested in books about writing. Just in case you were wondering. All the other books we took home were children’s books which I loved as much or more than the kids. Not all the books we checked out were fiction. There was so much we wanted to know. There were books about places in the world, boats and planes and plants and animals. We found books about times in history. We read all the books we could. Sometimes we read books all day and most of the night. We often fell asleep reading.

Now we have Google, or Bing or other. I use Google. I can google from the computer or a device like Kindle, i-phone, as long as I have Wi-Fi. We can check different sources and print things out. One can go for hours referencing and cross referencing and finding out stuff. Amazon is always on standby. Have you noticed that? Whenever I come across a book about a subject, Amazon is there with a ‘buy now’ button. Prime members can have ‘one click’ service. No need to verify your purchase because you are a Prime Member. It’s quite risky. I’ve clicked on something to see more about it and next day there it is at my door. Of course, now I know that you have thirty minutes to cancel if you made a mistake. That is if you realize what you did. Buying books on Amazon is the easiest thing. I had to have Mark build me some shelves.

We have been using Google but this year we have decided to get back to our library routine. We did that when Chloe was younger but stopped during an unusually busy and stressful time. We have just started fourth grade. Fourth grade is the beginning of bigger stuff. We are going to need the library. We are excited about it. I’m hoping that their won’t be a sidebar on facebook reflecting our library browsing decisions. Hopefully there won't be any pop up bill-boards all the road, trying to sell us something because of our research choices. I have noticed that too on the internet. It all seems to be connected. Everything you look up or research on the internet has with it a whole industry. You innocently look up something to do with tomato diseases and you find answers. Lot’s of great answers. Some of them really useful. But then of course their are the books you may need and Amazon is there to help you with that. Then there are the industries. Ads about tomato cages, special gardening techniques, boxes and special watering systems, dirt analysis kits, seed packets, companion plants, chemicals and organic solutions. Help for the study of the moon and stars in relation to your tomato plants. All the animals and bugs and all the equipment needed to keep them away, trap them or delete them. These things pop up, slide across, invade the facebook news feed, fill your spam folder in your email. I looked up something once which had to do with health. Goodness me, I got so tired of that ad with the fat tummy and the big secret. Every time I tried to do something there it was. Sometimes it was moving, sometimes it was cut open so I could see what it looked like on the inside. I’m really hoping this does not happen with the library. With every thing becoming so modernized, I’m hoping that the library is still that same quiet, respectful, non-advertising peaceful place it always was, where information and adventure await you quietly from within the silent shelves.

Written by: Elizabeth Williams, daily writing exercise, 1,054 words.

The House - 1

The house stood there on the hill just as it always had. That is since it was built, in 1869.

My great great grandfather had built it when he was 31 years old. He had built it for his wife who he wasn’t married to yet, but he wouldn’t marry her until he had a suitable house. His idea of a suitable house was a rather large expensive one, which he worked hard to save up for and which all his energies went into the building of. This is why he was already 31 years old and still not married. But Louise had waited patiently, which was rather amazing since she had many anxious suitors and her parents not really sure of my great great grandfathers intentions though he had stated it very clearly, tried to marry their daughter off several times. However she was sure that great great grandfather was the only one for her and had promised to wait for him to the end of time if need be. And wait she did. He had bought the property near her parents home. It was 50 acres of wooded hillside with a pond at the bottom fed by a small creek. He had taken Louise there and they had walked all over it sharing ideas and dreams for their house and future family. The next day he left for the big city. He wrote letters. Lots of short ones, and gave a return address. She wrote long letters in return and made lots of visits to the property. He had been 21 when he left and she had been 17. Her parents thought she would get over it in time and fall in love with one of the charming young suitors. On the contrary the property she said was a sign of his promise and she believed him. After a few years he began to send her pictures of homes. She wrote back her comments about this one and that. The years passed and she turned 27. Her sisters had all married and called her Auntie Spinster. Then he came home. He took her to their property and showed her the plans. Soon he had a crew of workers building away. He paid attention to quality, detail and structure. She made plans for the wedding. Her parents were all too glad that she was finally going to marry. She had been teaching at the village school and this was truly a big affair with the children. By now she had many nieces and nephews and great great grandpas family was also a large one. The wedding was to be one of great importance. Great great grandpa had learned banking and investment in the big city and now he set up his own bank in the village.

When the house was finished and enough furniture bought so that they were comfortable the couple were married and it was 1869.

My Aunt Melinda told me this. She said it was my heritage. So I’m writing it down to keep it for all the generations to come. There is a large painting of my great great grandparents, Theodore and Louise. It is hanging over the mantle in the great room.

I hadn’t seen the house for years. Some things had changed and it appeared smaller than I remembered it. The shrubs had grown and were now tall bushes. I remember jumping over them in a game we used to play. They were much too tall for that now. Some of the flower beds were gone too and lawn took their place. Some undergrowth had surrounded the trees close to the house. Even the house itself seemed changed. The walls no longer held the boldness they once had but seemed friendlier, gentler. The gate at the end of the long drive was new. Even the maples which had lined the long drive had been replaced with saplings. It was a pretty sight but nothing like the majestic tunnel through which we had ridden our bikes on many a summer vacation to visit Grandma and Grandpa. Yet their was still something strangely magical about the place. I hesitated at the gate, taking a good look at everything. The edge of the property stopped just a few yards from the driveway now. The orchards had all been sold off to residences. But the main grounds remained. The barn was gone and the stables had been turned into a double car garage. But for all the changes I saw, one feeling surrounded me and that was comfort. Like the comfortable feeling of being home after a long trip. You’ve been camping or taken a road trip somewhere and you come home and it is so comforting to hear the crunch of the tires on your own driveway stones. Even if your drive is paved it still sounds and feels different than all the roads in the world. I’ve always felt that. Even if I were asleep and we pulled into our own drive. It sounded like home. I would always wake up right as we pulled into our driveway. You can travel the world, far and wide and it all feels the same, but the minute you pull into your own driveway you can tell. It was like that for me now. I was still in the car. I had pulled into the driveway and stopped before this big iron gate. Everything was so changed but I felt as though I were home. I got out of the car and walked toward the gate. Even though I hadn’t seen this gate before, opening it felt natural and good. I got back in my car and drove slowly down the drive. I was home.

Written by Elizabeth Williams, fiction, The House.  The first part in a series. 8/11/14

To read the next chapters: The House 2, The House 3, The House 4, The House 5, The House 6, The House 7, The House 8