For the second time this year, I returned to No. 29 Ullswater Crescent. I also had a dream about it last year, so something is definitely brewing with that place. It might be trying to call me back - we shall see. The story this time was that we had been renting it out to tenants, and my family (that is myself, my parents, and my sisters) had gone back to inspect the condition of the house after evicting them. I spent nearly all of the dream in my old bedroom, reminiscing and going through my old things, many of which were still there. The fundamentals however, were changed beyond recognition, with dirty mattresses propped up against the walls, a second bed in the corner, and even a big computer station, such as I had as a teenager at Heartbreak Hotel.
I don't remember if the clown wallpaper was still intact. It was still there in the dream 'Return to Looseleigh', but I don't recall it being up last night. I would just like to dwell on a fact that doesn't get much recognition, namely that my bedroom in a haunted house was covered in creepy clown wallpaper. I mean, could it get any more clichéd? My parents didn't put it up, which means someone else with a demented mind, or a Victorian relic, thought it would be suitable for a young child. How times have changed! I recall there was one particular clown among the motley crew who I found creepier than the others. He was a big lump with bouffant black hair and a baggy backside. He reminded me of my friend, Michael Hayes, who I had left behind in Newcastle when moving to Plymouth.
The dimensions of the room had altered and it was much bigger than before, but still small enough to be considered a box room. In addition to the layout being off, the belongings had also changed. It was a mixture of my old stuff and the last boy's who had lived there. In the haste of their eviction, they had not taken all of their things with them. There were framed sports awards and certificates on the walls, trophies and medals, such as might be found in your typical American, red-blooded boy's bedroom. Certainly not fitting for an unathletic, British delinquent such as your narrator. Most of the awards were for tin-pin bowling. The top of the chest of drawers was covered in plastic superhero toys on stands, such as Batman and Superman. They looked like they might have been from cereals.
I decided that I wanted to live in this tiny room again, with scant possessions and no responsibilities. The bookcase still had my old Narnia books, as well as a whole range of Star Wars novelisations, and also some Hero's Challenge game books (Fighting Fantasy knockoffs). I felt a wave of nostalgia on seeing these, and thought about how far I had strayed from innocent, childish pleasures. Not as far as many other adults frankly, I was watching the animated Droids series last night, but something inside me has corrupted. Speaking of corruption, I noticed an unpleasant, fusty smell in the room, and the bedsheets on which I sat were cold and moist to the touch. I thought it might be due to the single glazed window, which could be seen dripping with water through blue, vertical fabric blinds.
Through the window, the glare of car headlights in the driveway shone into my face, and I became aware that I was topless, a grave sight to anyone who might be watching. I ducked down out of sight and tweaked the blinds closed. I quite enjoyed this feeling of being like a child once again. I turned my attention to my old computer, its bulky monitor, once white, was now stained a dirty yellow. I tried to power it up, eager to see if it still worked, but the light sputtered and failed to stay on. Whilst inspecting a loose connection, I discovered that the inside of the computer was full of a viscous black sludge. "That will need to be cleaned out before it'll work," said Terry Cooper, who had suddenly appeared in the room.
Terry is someone I knew at university, but as to what he was doing in my old childhood bedroom at that moment, I had no idea."There's mould in the walls too," he announced, advancing towards the back wall with a tool in his hand. "It all needs gutting!" He swung the tool and made a hole in the wall, through which black mould could indeed be seen. I told him to wait before he caused further damage, for I wanted to photograph the bedroom and send it to my friends. "This mould could explain the ghost," Terry went on, "it could have induced hallucinations and panic attacks." I had heard this theory before - it is, to my mind, an idea just as fantastical as a supernatural entity. I do not blame people for trying to rationalise things, but the contortions of imagination can be outrageous.
Terry ignored my request and recommenced hacking away at the wall, tearing off chunks of mould-pitted plaster. I looked around for items to salvage from the destruction and my eyes rested on a suit bag hanging in the wardrobe. I pulled it down, spread it out on the bed, unzipped it, and found a whole collection of cheesy shirts, waistcoats and jackets from the 1980s that had once belonged to my father. I tried on a particularly garish jacket that was far too small for me, and ran downstairs to show my family. My mother and sisters were crowding around the front door, waiting for the postman to ring the doorbell, which played 'Don't Stop Me Now', by Queen. When he failed to press the doorbell, they all sang the song loudly through the letterbox at him, scaring him out of his wits.
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