To make a long story short, my mother sold her house to this couple, whom was introduced by my? They were a very handsome couple indeed? both he and his were tall, young, thoughtful, and handsome; a striking couple you could say; and worked, both having good jobs, the main ingredients I’d think for a successful life together—for the most part, and for buying a house. Although I didn’t say—did I: God, sanity, jealousy, and a few other incidentals, but as you will see, they were all mixed up in this little, but live drama that took place on Cayuga Street a few decades ago; but who thinks of such things at a time one is selling a house, not me; nor did my mother.
In point of fact, my mother did sell the house to this couple, and did make a nice sizable profit in doing so. A nice little nest egg or you could call it, retirement fund—in addition, for she was retiring at the time.
Well, to my understanding, and I do not know the complete facts, but many of them I do know, the couple got into a fight: the fact I don’t know, is what the fight was about. We could say, he beat her, and so I heard, or we could say, she found a lover, and she did sometime after she moved out of the house, but at the time she had decided to move out, I don’t know this. That is, I don’t know what actually the dispute or fight was about, and I’m not sure if it matters for this story, or for any other reason to be honest. What happened down the road was uncalled for no matter how one looks at it. But then again, as I had mentioned before, or inferred, sanity may not have played a complete role in this drama; it never does, does it.
She was to move out of the house, and actually she did move out, or was in the process of moving out, for she did leave some of her cloths behind. This was not a wise move. And he remained in the house thereafter, night and day, night and day, night and day, night and day. Not even going to work, no work, no play, no anything; night and day he remained in that house.
Now that she has moved out, and a short time has elapsed, I can say with certainty, she had found a new boy-friend during this time and the husband became aware of it. That among other reasons was why he could not go to work, lost his job—for the most part, stayed in the house night and day, night and day, in the caller mostly; especially at night with the lights turned off.
One night she went home to get her cloths, this was not a wise thing either, but remember, the lights are off in the house, his car is parked down a few blocks [streets], unseen by the average eye, the unexpectant-eye.
Let me leap back a ting. While she remained dating this guy, and I assume she stayed at his place, or some hotel, but again, those facts are not known. Her ex-husband (now in the house) shut off all the lights in the house, borrowed a gun from a long time childhood friend of mine (asking for it three times; or until he felt he had to give him the gun, not knowing exactly for what reasons; although we know what the purpose of a gun is for; protection, or to kill someone) and he stayed in the basement awaiting her foot steps.
He knew she would come sometime for her cloths, he knew her well; and I would think, most women would, but then, why alone? Where was her boyfriend I ask myself? Was he a coward? Perhaps he said: ‘…leave them be,?or ‘leave them there; it’s not worth the trouble? but again, she went to get them. Now she knew he was shrewd or deeper than that; and at this point, he was off balance, sitting in the basement, night after night, waiting for her, now with a gun. Ah, hindsight is not good; but we must go on with the story nonetheless; as scornful as it is going to be.
So he parked his car two blocks away, out of sight, I know I’ve already mentioned this. And there he sat for a week and half. Soundless, stone-silent, in a dark absorbing anger inside his body, his mind, his chest, his intestines; each minute that passed his mind clinked like a clock waiting, waiting for the moment she’d walk into his trap, his cobweb. What would he do, did he plan it all out? or was it only somewhat planned? In any case, this part he planned out well, for she was coming, and she did not spot his car, if she even considered that; thus, out of sight, out of mind.
He was so obsessed, he did not even go to work; people were wondering what had happened to him; but realizing he was going through a divorce, they left well enough alone. At this juncture, there he was planting seeds, playing dice with the demon. The criminal-hypnosis mind was working overtime, and the thirst for revenge was being planned. It’s a funny thing, but demon seem to want revenge for you, and don’t care how you get it, and seem to always work on the premise: ‘who cares? and as unemotional as they can be, only lift an eyebrow when they see you prancing off to prison, because of revenge.
The woman [his wife] did return to get her cloths. And He did hear her foot steps when she entered the house. Now before I go any further with this, I want to say, I lived in this house for about eight-years of my life. And so I know every corner of it, the basement especially. She must have came in the backdoor; the reason being, the front being too noticeable, and noisy, plus the porch screen door was locked with a latch, not that secure but noisy. The back being less noisy and more predictable and the normal entrance one took at this particular house. From that point there are two bedrooms once you walk through the kitchen, but first the kitchen pantry, then the kitchen; there to the left was my mother’s bedroom; and a bathroom then came between the two bedrooms, the second bedroom was grandpa’s bedroom, and the porch beyond that. The attic going up stairs was in the first bedroom area; this was where my brother and I slept.
To my understanding she would have went in the back door, through the house—the two kitchens I talked about, and into my grandfather’s old bedroom, closest to the front door. A long walk back to the backdoor to get out, should she need to. I’m sure she did not lock the backdoor, and the front was most likely locked, plus it had a front porch that would have been locked. And that would be another reason she had to go to the back—once the happening took place. In addition, the front door could only be opened and locked from someone inside the house; thus, she may not have had the keys to the main front door; I would expect not, and if she did, I’m sure it was not her first thought, but the backdoor would have been. Again I say she had a long walk back to the backdoor. Or she would have had to make her escape through two locked front doors she may not have had keys for. In any case He new this.
As she walked through the kitchen-porch area, into the main kitchen, then through the dinning room, into the living room, and made it to the front bedroom, which was to the left of the living room, she most likely felt safe, if she made it this far, and he hadn’t leaped out on her. Now, the husband who was sitting down stairs at this time, awaiting her, was getting light from the arc light outside, which peered through the small basement windows, and so he knew she was about to enter the house when she did, a small window to his right was by the six steps it took to enter the backdoor outside; his timing now had to be exact. Thus, he could see her shadow walking up the steps of the embankment, to the backdoor, and perhaps even see her coat as she opened the door in the dead of winter. He heard the door open, but knew she had to enter the house first, so he didn’t want to move; lest he scare her off for good; so he waited until she was far enough in the house, as a result, he would make it up the stairs before she could run out. So he waited.
Once she entered the backdoor area, and into the pantry and kitchen, he could Hear her foot steps above his head, he knew exactly where she was at; the old wooden floors were from the turn of the century, 80-plus years old. Now he new she was in my grandfather’s old bedroom, their bedroom, or at least it was at one time. He walked about 25-feet going around the furnace, by the wine caller, where the one flight of wooden crackling as you stepped on them. He walked up them—first slowly, as he listened to her foot steps, and tried to match his with hers, so she wouldn’t hear his. I would guess she must have heard the wood cracking around the sixth or seventh step, there were thirteen.
I would also guess she did, and he most likely heard her walking quickly to investigate the sounds, or perhaps just to get the hell out of there; and possibly had figured out he was downstairs by the time he was on the 10th step, and if so, the last three-steps left was simply a leaped for him. She would have had to run right into his arms.
What did happen at that point no one really knows, but he got her, pulled her down into the basement, where there were two cast iron wash tubs, and a drain under them. He beat her, cursed her, and shot her dead—this is as close to the truth as one can get. Cut her body up (we know this), put it in plastic bags, and the blood poured down the drain. When he came half to his senses, he bagged her and put her in his car. Isn’t it funny, how we all come to our senses after the fact; it kind of tells me, you’re only crazy for the moment you want to be. Anyhow, it was winter.
It was winter, and so he went about ten-miles from the house, put her body on a little freeway island, under the snow, and that is where she laid until the snow melted. What was he thinking by doing that is beyond me, but evidently the devil told him prison was not so bad? Why not hit Mexico, or South America, but no, he stayed in the house until spring. Went back to work, told everyone she left him, which they all knew this at present anyway.
And like every spring in Minnesota, the snow melted about two weeks later. And yes, they came knocking at his door. He was put into prison, where he remains to this writing; I hope.
The Vacant House
There is always more to such a story isn’t that true. Well, the house was vacant for a very long time after the murder. Some one did purchase it although. Actually, the people that bought the house paid about half its worth, a real deal I heard they got this couple. But it was hard to sell after the murder, and the mortgage company and/or real estate people came to the conclusion it was better to take a loss, and again I say, the house was sold, and the people that lived in the house, did some real fine improvements to it. The people lived in the house for about a year. Thereafter they could not live in it any longer, they had to move out.
Leaping back again, just a bit and a few steps forward, and then to my present: no one would purchase it again, why, because it was haunted, so people had said. The previous owners had heard the sounds of a woman; foot steps, and seen things they never knew existed. It was a tomb. Lives were being lived in the shadows of this house; a lost drama acted out. And the visible world was subject to the invisible. Fear of the unknown was always present. Unrest and trembling took place.
Somehow the house burned down, and thereafter, it was never rebuilt.
I went there last summer [2001], and I noticed it was now a parking lot, where the house used to be. I went for a walk, on what I call, the old dirt road, or path, right behind where the house used to be. I used to walk it as a kid; there I talked to Christ, and my guardian angel. It’s still there—the old dirt road.
I remember the house with fondness, and good old times. I was sad to hear some residue of a soul may have been lingering in the old wooden structures of the house. It was where my grandfather, mother and brother lived. This was where we learned, played and where my brother would sneak out at night, by way of the back window from the attic where we slept at night; jumping onto the roof of the porch-pantry to join the, “Cayuga Street Gang.? He would sneak back the same way hours later.
Originally written 2001,revised 8/2005
Dennis Siluk's works can be seen in seven countries, and are translated into two languages. He has 50,000-people that go to his website a year, and travels that many miles each year; he has 683,000-air miles thus far, throughout the world. His books can be seen on most any book dealer web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com