The Twisp House
The Beginning (But Not Exactly)
The house was always there. Locals in the surrounding area couldn’t remember a time when it wasn’t there. While impressive as far as size, the house didn’t have any distinguishing features. The grounds surrounding it - at one time, meticulously manicured - in recent decades had become large plots of tangled bush, vine, and weeds. If one looked hard enough, little garden gnomes and miscellaneous tiny statues could be seen peeking out like timid and oddly shaped groundhogs. Occasionally a bit of movement occurred in the brambles and out popped a little rabbit.
The faded and cracked paint that adorned the house appeared to a pea green and the once white trim dulled to a forlorn grey. Boards had warped and shifted throughout but otherwise the front porch seemed to be intact. The oddest part of the entire house (at least while admiring the outside) was the front door. It appeared almost brand new; sanded, smooth, painted with a bright shiny door knob and bolt locks. Someone had taken the time to tend to the front door while letting the rest of the house fall to the wayside.
This is what Karen Jones had to work with and she hadn’t yet looked at the back-end of the house nor the inside. Considering the shape of the front and the surrounding grounds, she was not looking forward to perusing the rest of the home. There were so many other things she would rather be doing right now. Getting a tooth extracted was at the top. But she had been given this mildly dilapidated house as a gift (of sorts) and she needed to decide what to do with it despite her general and ongoing loathing of the house.
Karen thought back to what had placed her squarely in this predicament: family. This struck her as rather funny considering she had spent most of her life in a solitary fashion. Her parents had died in a fire when she was eleven. The rest of her childhood was spent bouncing around different foster homes – all of which seemed to be comprised of people much more interested in other life aspects than in her. By the time she became a legal adult, she had quite a bit of time experiencing being alone. It never occurred to her to seek out distant relatives.
Fortunately (or unfortunately, in Karen’s mind), she didn’t have to start shaking her family tree. One evening a few weeks back, while cozied up to a cup of tea and book in her tidy little apartment, Karen received a phone call. One Mr. Lionel Cupperton, part of the law firm Thorton, Cupperton, and Meed, had called to inform her she had inherited an item of some value and could she please come by his office at her earliest convenience? Skeptically, she agreed to a day and time, wrote down the office address, said her goodbyes, and promptly went to her laptop to look up the law firm’s legitimacy.
The prestigious firm comprising of Thorton, Cupperton, and Meed had been in the legal business since the 1930s practicing law for quite a few well-known people in the state. Having satisfied her life-long practice of never believing things at face value, Karen decided the item of unknown value was most likely, at best, some hideous piece of furniture or, at worst, some long forgotten bill that had racked up quite a bit of interest. Life had a way with screwing with you like that, she’d found over the years. A gift was placed in front of you and it was something you didn’t want or something that caused you discomfort. In any case, she wasn’t keen on disrupting her regular schedule to be handed something she most likely didn’t want.
At the appointed day and time, Karen found herself face to face with Mr. Cupperton in a rather uncomfortable chair set in a dimly lit office. After shuffling his paperwork around a few times, he said “We had quite a time finding you. It seems nearly all of your family line has died out. You are the sole remaining relation of Mrs. Mary Twisp.”
She tried to recall any conversations her parents may have had regarding anyone with the last name of “Twisp” as it was a bit unusual. Nothing came to mind. She wasn’t surprised. Over the years, the memories she had as a child with her parents while they were alive had become hazy, scrambled bits of colors, smells, and sights. She had tried to keep a better handle on those fragile bits of memory but the years had made them too slippery and illusive. “I’m afraid I have no idea who you’re talking about” Karen replied.
The lawyer excitedly launched into a rather lengthy bit of genealogy going back to the 1920s. Most of the family tree tracing was lost on Karen. However, the gist of the line was Karen’s father was the only son of one John Jones. John Jones, in turn, was the sole son of one Phineas Jones who had married Alexandria Twisp – sister of William Twisp. William had been married to Mary (nee Pelton) and, despite years of trying, had no children. John, Phineas, Alexandria, and William were all deceased. Therefore, as her parents had only the one child and Mary Twisp had recently passed away, Karen was the only living relative within the family Twisp.
Mr. Cupperton rambled on for a while and eventually came to the point of the entire meeting. Mary Twisp had stated in her will that her house would be given to remaining family members with the caveat that it not be sold. A managed trust fund had been put into place to cover all future property taxes. The law firm had doggedly tried to locate any and all living family members. It boiled down to just one – Karen. He shoved a bunch of paperwork towards Karen and indicated where she should sign. Handing her a set of keys and directions to her newly acquired home, Mr. Cupperton stood up, shook her hand, and directed her toward his office door.
Blinking in the sudden bright light of the sun, Karen stood staring at the keys in her hand. Just like that, she was a home owner. As the reality sunk it, it dawned on her there would be a ton of other things she’d be the owner of as well. Upkeep, repair, furnishing, insurance, and who knows what else? The tiny glimmer of happiness was quickly squashed by her damned realistic nature. It was a by-product of growing up the way she did; inevitably one is disappointed no matter how hard one tries to be happy.
Once she reached the sanctity of her apartment, Karen launched into a bit of research regarding the Twisp family, the house, and the surrounding tiny town. Mary had been in the house her entire life. She was born there and never left. After they were married, William moved into the house with Mary and her parents. Mary and William took care of her parents (Alexander and Clara) until the day they died. The house seemed central to every aspect of Mary. Surprisingly and despite being located in such a small and relatively unknown town, the Twisp house had seen its share of interesting people over the course of nearly ten decades.
The sense of closeness, family and even excitement permeated nearly everything Karen read about Mary Twisp. It was unnerving. Mary had the life Karen never did. Though the family was small, it was still very connected and very loving. Karen realized this was something she had always craved. She felt as though something had been stolen from her. A vital piece of life that others had and she would never know. Placed along with her belief that the house was going to end up costing her more than it was worth, she began to loathe the idea of going to see the house.
So, here she was - standing in the gravel drive, staring at the front of the Twisp house. A part of her wanted to get back into her car, never thinking of the house again. The more sensible part of her realized this wouldn’t make things any better. The house would still be here. She’d still own it. And it would fall into further disrepair by simply ignoring it. “Besides”, she told herself, “I can think of it as a fresh start. I’ll think of it as an adventure and a life-long journey in home ownership.” Resigned, Karen started up the front porch steps toward the front door.
Reaching for the door knob, Karen thought to herself “This is the beginning”. But it wasn’t, not really.
The 1960s and the Back Parlor
Out of the entirety of her life, Mary Twisp loved the nineteen sixties the most. She had just tripped into her forties, was still deeply in love with her husband William, and was lucky enough to be living in a time where love and peace were at the forefront of everyone’s mind. Her parents didn’t understand and had no desire to indulge in the practices of the time but allowed their child to explore and immerse herself in what made her happy. Their house had been built specifically with her happiness in mind and who were they to spoil it? Seeing Mary laugh and full of joy was enough.
And Mary did immerse herself. The music of the time appealed to her most and she was often found in the back parlor, listening to Joan Baez, Bob Dylan, and The Doors. She was never a woman to stylize herself after other popular figures of the time. But she did feel an affinity for those bucking the norm and striving to be more than what society expected. William wasn’t nearly as free but loved to see the light shining in his wife’s eyes when she spoke of all the decadent achievements of those surely destined to be part of history.
A throwback to the turn of the century, the Twisp house sported a fabulous back parlor. In the 1960s, back parlors were definitely a thing of the past but William and Mary loved having a room dedicated to music, deep conversations, and the occasional bit of fun with games. They often invited neighbors and occasionally the odd celebrity. The house seemed to welcome visitors with such warmth, something that radiated from Mary to the point of almost being visual.
Mary knew she had been born for this house. True, her parents had built the house with the love of their impending child in their minds. But, as the house was completed, each and every room seemed to be imbued with the fervent wish of life-long joy for their new child. As it was built, the rooms each took on a barely sensed affinity for the girl about to be presented to the world. It wasn’t something that anyone could put a finger on or point out, exactly. After the birth of Mary and as one went throughout the building, each room gave off an aura that seemed to bend and engulf the tiny baby. The house recognized Mary and Mary recognized the house.
The sixties brought about so much cultural and social change; it was difficult to keep up. Mary had her pulse on just about everything happening and went out of her way to keep her beloved William in the loop. He was happy to be along for the ride but, for the most part, felt like someone hanging on to the tails of a high flying kite. William was most surprised when his wife was able to invite the occasional society bigwig.
William came from a family with enough money to make him comfortable but he never quite felt quite right not working. Once an adult and after his college education, William worked as a librarian. It wasn’t a glamorous job nor was it one often filled by men at the time. Still, it gave him an immense sense of accomplishment and allowed him to indulge in his love of literature.
Mary and William used the extra bit of income to finance somewhat elaborate parties in their back parlor. Very few guests were invited as the couple liked to keep things intimate and private. But for those few who were privy to the Twisp household parties, being invited was truly memorable. The combination of Mary’s passion of the current era and the surprise celebrity “just passing by” made for evenings to be talked about for weeks afterward.
The back parlor and Mary soaked up the tangible energy left by each and every guest – Charles Nelson Rielly, Eddie Albert, Patty Duke (to name but a few), as well as the locals in attendance. Throughout his life, William would swear if he listened very closely in that room, he could hear faint echoes of lively conversations from days gone by. Mary was more than aware of this. In fact, she often referred to the parlor room as a room where she could always revisit and relive the 60s. Most found this quaint and a bit odd; William had long since found the truth of the matter.
Through a Brightly Painted Door
Karen unlocked the front door and stepped across the threshold into the musty front parlor of the old Victorian-styled home. Quickly she mentally berated herself for not bringing a flashlight. It hadn’t occurred to her that the electricity wouldn’t be running. Straining to see in the dark, she could vaguely make out shadows of furniture covered with cloths thick with dust. I’ll end up smashing my leg on something with no light, she thought to herself. With one hand on a nearby wall, Karen made her way to the nearest window and pulled on the shade.
The dark was quickly banished by the mid-day sun streaming through the now bare window. Judging by how neat the room looked and despite the protective coverings on the furniture, in its day, the front parlor was probably exquisite and always immaculately cleaned on the off-chance company would stop by. Covered and dusty now, the room seemed morose. It was more than that, Karen started to realize. She was suddenly overcome with a feeling of great sadness and it wasn’t born of her. The sadness was actually coming from the house. She could almost hear an audible sigh emanating from the floor and walls. There was so much despair, it became overwhelming and heavy. Karen slowly sank down until she was sitting on the floor, arms tightly wound about her bent legs.
As Karen looked at the room, the view dissolved and then reestablished itself. The furniture pieces were no longer covered, the dust had disappeared, and the light changed from bright outdoor sources to soft-glowing inner light fixtures. She could hear low mutterings coming from a separate room and they were progressively getting louder as they approached the front parlor. As her mind scrambled to figure out what was going on and how there could be people in the house, a door opened and a couple walked into the room heavily engaged in conversation.
The woman was tall and elegant with her blonde hair neatly tucked into an elaborate bun. Her voice was soft and her speech was eloquent. As the woman moved away from the gentleman’s side, it was apparent she was pregnant. As she sat in one of the nearby seemingly very uncomfortable but very Victorian looking chairs, the man turned and walked toward the fireplace and began busying himself with warming up the room. He was as tall as his companion, dark haired and dark eyed. For the moment, their conversation had ceased.
It suddenly occurred to Karen that their clothing was very outdated by many decades. Her mind began to race. Are there people here participating in some sort of roleplaying games? Had they broken in? Didn’t they see her sitting on the floor, eyes wild, knees hugged to chest? Before she could open her mouth to ask these questions, the woman began to speak again.
“Really, Alexander. We only have a week or two until the baby is born and we have not agreed on a single name. It should be less of a chore and more of a blessing”, she said in a mildly chiding tone. “All we need to accomplish is an agreement on one name if it is a girl and another if it is a boy.”
Alexander sighed and turned his attentions away from the fire. “It is a bit of a chore. A name is something a person lives with for the entire of their living existence, Clara. We could do our child a severe injustice by giving them a name they could not abide. A lifetime being chained to a label one might loathe does not sound like a happy life to me.”
Clara smiled and said “I rather enjoy the look on your face when I call you ‘The Great’. You become flustered and you blush in such a gentlemanly fashion.”
Alexander harrumphed and, indeed, began to blush. “If it will give you pleasure and ensure you quit using that incredibly odd moniker to have your way, I will empty my entire schedule for the evening to resign myself completely to the task of locating appropriate names.”
“Alexander, my love, you have my word. Though, please do be kind if I occasionally forget and recall that it is spoken out of love”, Clara said while struggling to get out of the high-backed chair. Alexander rushed over to help his wife up, took her arm, and walked her out of the front parlor.
Karen found her voice at this moment and started to call after the couple. Her vision became blurred. She rubbed at her eyes, blinking, as the room dissolved back to its original state.
The 1920s and the Front Parlor
Mary loved the front parlor. Though traditionally the room was supposed to be reserved for when guests were visiting, her parents didn’t always seem to follow tradition. The fireplace gave off a sweet, woodsy smell she often found on her father’s jackets. The long and heavy drapes surrounding the windows, when pulled back to let in the day’s sun, were perfect for a little child of four to envelope herself and pretend she was in an Indian teepee. Mary had no idea what an Indian was but she had seen pictures of teepees in some of father’s books and thought hiding in one would be great fun.
During most days when it was sunny, she was shushed off to play outside. So Mary began to long for days of rain that would enable her to spend hours exploring the intricate carpeting of the front parlor or the intricate carvings surrounding the fireplace. It wasn’t that outside was bad. Inside the house, particularly within this room, was simply better and more interesting. When Mary thought of happiness and love, the front parlor was the first thing that came to her mind.
In the evening, Mary would listen to Father read a story or watch Mother work her sewing. Sometimes they would play a game or simply talk about the day they had. As the hour grew late, the ticking of the mantel clock combined with the warmth of the fire and her parents would lull Mary to sleep with a sweet smile on her face.
A few of the very best Christmas memories Mary had played out in this very room. Snow falling gently outside made for the coziest fires in the front parlor. At the opposite wall from the fireplace, a great big tree could be found – dazzling and sparkling from tip to trunk. Mother would make hot drinking chocolate by the gallons and would always overload Mary’s cup with tiny marshmallows on top. Neighbors, friends, and relatives seemed to always be stopping by to give their holiday greetings.
One particular evening, just a few days before Christmas Eve when Mary was eight years old, old friends of Mother and Father stopped by with their two children, Alexandria and William. Alexandria was older than Mary and not very interesting. The boy was closer to her age and was rather peculiar. He kept hiding behind his mother’s dress, slowly peeking out to steal glances at Mary. When Mary looked at him, he would stick his tongue out at her and quickly hide once again. She didn’t know quite what to make of this strange little boy. Instead of dwelling on William’s odd behavior any further, Mary decided to play “teepee” (though, at eight, she was getting to be a bit too big to be playing with the curtains).
On Mary’s ninth Christmas, she received one of her most beloved presents – a rabbit. The buck was mostly pure white with dark brown ears and feet. Mary loved his pink eyes as they were as pink as some of the flowers Mother grew in the back garden. Father had built a special hutch and placed it in the small closet off of the kitchen with the understanding that her new pet would be in his hutch outside when the weather was warmer and less apt to freeze. Mary agreed then proceeded to plead to be allowed to have her bunny romp about the parlor with her. From that day forward, her bunny spent most of his life playing with Mary in her favorite room.
Curiously, Mary didn’t name her rabbit right away. When Mother asked why, Mary very plainly stated “A name is something he will have to live with his entire life. I do not want to hastily name him only to find he does not like it!” Mother smiled brightly and started chuckling to herself. After much consideration, the newly acquired pet was christened Edward as Mary thought this was a serious name and Edward was a very serious rabbit. He was also the first of many rabbits to come over the years.
Whispers of a Lonely House
Karen sat, shivering and blinking maniacally, and contemplated what she had just seen. Her mind processed the impossible information over and again, trying to make sense of it all. There were people here, just now, talking she reassured herself. She was not someone given to daydreams and didn’t believe in ghosts or spirits. And yet, she had no logical explanation for what happened.
Slowly, she calmed herself and stood up. Her first instinct was to leave the house and never look back. But, as her breathing mellowed and her heart rate became more regular, she was struck with the urge to look into the house further. In front of her was a door to the rest of the first floor and to her left, the staircase to the upper level. She decided to leave the lower part of the house for later and headed up the staircase.