The Only Witness

Can a house hold memories? Can what has been experienced in its midst continue to "live" within its walls? "No", you say, "that's ridiculous!" A visit to the house at Colfer Crossing just might change your mind. Or a talk with Bill Johnson who agreed to tend the little house in the owners' absence.

Thinking a few weeks of solitude at the old place might do him good, Bill agreed to take the job for paltry pay. But now, it was June 20, 1931, almost 3 months to the day since the bizarre accident that had sent the owners into seclusion. The house itself bore the marks physically ‑ cracked walls, peeling plaster, broken glassware, but there was something intangible that permeated everything. It was as though the house had somehow absorbed the noise and horror of that blast. And now, it seemed to require silence so that even the trains that passed 100 yards away sounded a mile distant. Bill's skin tingled here and the air tasted metallic. Like an aftershock that never ended. Without him even realizing it, Bill's face wore a constant scowl as the atmosphere slowly took possession of his soul. He was becoming one with the house in its silent agony.

Coming in at dusk, Bill flicked the radio on and took his usual seat by the open screen door facing towards the tracks. News of the day filled the air but Bill did not really hear it. It was like time had literally stood still and there was no moving on. The calendar on the wall attested to this. "March", it continually said, refusing to release the future.

As was his custom, Bill reread the newspaper account of the train explosion of March 21, 1931 as though he could somehow help bear the burden of it. "A train containing flammable material and sheet metal derailed and exploded at Colfer Crossing", it stated. "No survivors, no onlookers", the paper continued impassionately. It seemed the house which had stood for years as a monument to safe passages was the only witness to this tragedy. And like a living thing, it had been shaken and torn, not just outwardly but somewhere deep inside. The noise, the screams, the terror, the flames, the death that had come to Colfer Crossing were all trapped somewhere within these walls.

Could a house really see, feel, and hear? Bill had never thought so but now he often wondered what the old house would say if it could speak. Had the blast "deafened" it forever so it could no longer "hear" or even want to? Was the smell of burning metal so imprinted that even the fresh air coming through the open door would never cleanse it?

"A house with memories?", you laugh! You have never met the house at Colfer Crossing.