These days, nights really, the house is full of a crying person, one whose mournful sobs remind me of the ghost of Mary Meredith in “The Uninvited”.
In that 1944 film, Ray Milland and Ruth Hussey are a brother and sister who fall in love with a beautiful haunted house, “these stretches of Devonshire and Cornwall and Ireland which rear up against the westward ocean. Mists gather here… and sea fog… and eerie stories…”
The ghost of Mary fills the long nights and her dreadful crying is a plea for someone to render some justice for a youthfully truncated life. Milland and Hussey soon learn that there are some bad people who covered up some bad things in this gorgeous mansion on the rocks.
And what about me, the person who sometimes just gets out of bed and walks from room to room, remembering those ghosts of lives who had lived here in the past 30 years? Some of these people are still alive, but in other rooms, I bump into the young Andy, the one who walked into this house at 17, and thought he was dreaming.
Not all the times spent here were nice. Some were rotten and dishonest and wasteful and cruel. Hours and days were expended worrying about situations beyond our control. There was yelling and screaming, and bitter times too.
But mostly I think of my times in New Jersey and New York as the best years of my life because I was young. When I walk around now, I touch the walls, and drink from the tap, and breathe in the air of three decades ago.
And the crying in the night comes not from a ghost, but from my heart.