Return to No. 29

As my former readers may remember, there is a house in the southwest of Albion where I spent some formative years of my childhood, and where I was first exposed to the sinister world of the supernatural. It was (and still is) an unassuming semi-detached house in a quiet neighbourhood on the edge of a wood. I could write at great length on that place, but I will refrain on this occasion. One day, I may disclose the house's true location, but for now, let us simply call it No. 29. Like many dreams before, I made the pilgrimage there, this time with my wife, child, and dog. The house had called to me over the years, like a beacon drawing me back. Unable to resist such magnetism, I had convinced my family to settle our affairs on the southeast coast and here we were, claiming ownership of the same house that had driven me out twenty years ago.

I walked through the familiar yet unfamiliar rooms, feeling the floor creak beneath my shoes in certain areas, and considering how much a place could be changed by those living under its roof. Barely any trace of my childhood remained. Dark, unattractive wallpaper had been put up, the carpets were unrecognisable, and a slightly fusty smell betrayed the uncleanliness of the previous tenants. Nonetheless, I resolved to fix the old place up and restore it as much as possible to what I remembered. As I completed my tour upstairs, I was relieved to discover that no trace of bad energy lingered, and whatever spirits may have plagued us back then, were long gone. Or so I hoped. It was time to inspect the back garden, where many a happy summer's day had been spent.

I was greatly surprised to discover that the entire garden and patio, formerly a tiered slope, was now covered in the blue polyester of a child's paddling pool/ activity zone. It was a vintage 'Fisher Price Penguin Run', designed to act as a water playground for young children. There were water slides, a ball pit, hoop games, and inflatable penguins marching up the slopes. I was told by the estate agent accompanying us that it had been found in the loft and meticulously restored by the last occupants. My daughter's eyes lit up at such a sight, and I gave her permission to go and play. Although the use of the garden had been lost, my daughter would have her own personal soft play area, and it seemed like a good trade-off. Memories of owning this 1980s play area suddenly came back to me, and I was astonished at how well preserved it was.

Lucinda was helped into her bathing costume by her mother, and ignoring the chilly grey sky, she scrambled up the bouncy slopes, splashed in the water, and grappled with the inflatable penguins, which were almost her own height. "I know this house is a bit small and shabby compared to the one we sold," I told my wife, "but look how much fun she is having. The Penguin Run is completely childproof, and she will be able to entertain herself whenever we want a break." My wife saw the wisdom in this and used it to overcome her initial dislike of the house. I had felt uneasy about lowering the lifestyle of my family in pursuit of this spiritual, some may say reckless, need to re-inhabit my poky childhood home, but the die had been cast. I turned to the estate agent and said, "We'll take it."