If Only Walls Could Talk

I know you’ve heard it said - if only these walls could talk… well - it’s not wishful thinking. They really can talk. Not everyone can hear them.

I don’t know why I hear them. It’s like that movie kid - “I see dead people”. Only I hear the memories of those who’ve gone before. It takes patience and an almost uncanny willingness to let the voices in where the heart can interpret them. They can’t be heard with your ears - can’t be understood by your brain - it takes your heart.

Maybe since I’ve been through so much - my heart is different than most. It’s scarred and battered - bruised and mutilated - but strong and resilient. It keeps beating despite my sometimes overwhelming wish for it to stop.

I was eleven the first time a house spoke to me. We had moved to this old house in Parksville a month before. Dad had another new job - the third one that year. I was in bed, wrestling with some demons in my brain - the ones with two legs, evil minds and black hearts.

My heart broke open as I relived the events of the day. Some mean girls dropped me head first into the toilet - an unclean toilet - and then flushed.  The water rose up - over my eyes and nose - almost reaching my mouth before it finally receded.  My tormentors were elated as I lay retching on the tiled floor, my long hair soiled with excrement. Mrs. Henderson heard the laughter and came in to see what was going on. The girls scattered and were gone.

I didn’t tell her their names - though I’m sure she knew them. She took me to the staff room where she washed my hair in the deep sink. She was so kind, I wanted to curl into her arms and never leave. Why can’t all mothers be that loving?

But back in bed, I heard a noise that made my hair stand on end. I sounded like voices, but I was home alone? Mom and Dad were over at the neighbours. I could hear them laughing through the open window - I knew it wasn’t them.

I waited - the silence smothering me and nothing. I turned off my light and slipped down deeper under the covers and there it was again… a moan or a murmur? My ears tingled with anticipation. I strained to catch the sound, my heart pounding wildly in my chest. Nothing. I quit trying and the sound washed over me again. Another moan, another murmur and then a baby cried.

The murmuring became louder, the baby stopped crying and I heard her name, Ella. As clear as if I had said it aloud myself. Ella.

I didn’t hear the house speak to me again for over a year. I thought I dreamt the whole thing. It was about the same time of year, only this time we were getting ready to move. Dad had another new job in another new city. My room was a jumble of boxes and bags. My tormentors from school were leaving me alone for the most part. Tripping me in the hallway, or accidentally jostling me into the lockers - nothing I couldn’t handle. I was thinking about them though, because I wouldn’t get to see them - I wouldn’t get to see their expressions when they each opened their lockers in the morning to a big surprise.

I snuggled down under the covers and was about the fall asleep, when I heard the sound again. Just like last time, the hair on my head stood on end and I strained to hear more. It was quiet. Then I remembered that if I didn’t try, it came more naturally, so I relaxed.

Ella was chattering away, making sounds maybe even a mother wouldn’t be able to understand. She sounded happy. Her mother came in and Ella squealed with delight, clapping her little hands… I lay there in the dark, listening to them talk to one another, one making sense, one not so much and I smiled at how lovely it was to share this space with so much love.

In my next house, the sounds came more often and they weren’t good sounds. The sounds of doors slamming, glass breaking, shouts of anger and rage hurled around many of the rooms. My mom found me crouched behind the sofa one Saturday afternoon, crying. She wanted to know what was wrong and I tried to tell her that the house had bad memories, but she didn’t understand. She sent me to see a psychiatrist who was very curious about my life. I made up stories to keep him from finding out what was really going on. I don’t know if he bought it or if he knew I was lying. I didn’t care.

Listening to house - to the walls talk became easier as I grew more confident and less afraid of the sounds. The stories ran the gamut of life’s adventures - happiness - to sorrow - love and adoration - pain and suffering and even murder. It was this latter that got me involved with the police. I offered my help and was rebuffed many times until one detective decided that he was willing to try anything to get answers. He took me to the house. I was a little nervous - well - I was a lot nervous - so the house wouldn’t talk right away. It took some coaxing on my part before it began. I listened quietly, nodding from time to time while to detective hissed at me to tell him what was going on. I just touched my finger to my lips and listened.

Eventually, he stopped asking and went outside. When the house had given up her secrets, I met him on the front lawn and told him what the house had said. He was elated. He knew he was on the right track all the time. He felt assured that now he would get his

conviction. He found the gun - right where the house said it would be - behind the fourth brick from the floor on the right side of the fireplace. Fingerprints and the ballistic reports would seal that evil man’s fate.
I know there must be more like me out there in the world. It would be really nice to meet someone who listened to houses like I do. It’s rather lonely not being able to share my experiences - although the detective has called me more than once - wondering if I’d like to go to dinner. I think the next time he calls - I’m going to say yes - because even though he can’t hear the walls talk - he believes I can.