For Sale By Owner
Sirens, bright lights, and an enormous number of people lined the streets in the small community of Columbus Township. The road was blocked off to allow the fire trucks and police cars plenty of ditch room to manuever. Because night was creeping up, flashlight beams filled the thick forest. At the top of the long, winding driveway a house was caught in vicious flames. The glow from the fire filled the sky. Firemen were frantically trying to get the fire under controll. It would be too late for the house, however; too much was already gone. The "For Sale By Owner" sign lay in the dirt at the end of the driveway.
Rhonda lived in the middle of all the other neighborhood kids, making her house the official meeting place. There was nothing to do in Columbus Township, so, being 14 years old, we had to invent things to do. No one in our group had a driver's license, making bicycles our primary transportation. Who wanted to rely on parents for rides? This was not cool, and we were beginning to care about our images. Besides, I don't think our parents would've liked the idea that our bikes were used to flee the scenes of neighborhood pranks. We couldn't really ask them for a ride to do this!
This summer would be different from any other and not for reasons that we were aware of. Of course, we knew that when the summer was over, we would be separated between two different high schools. Some would attend Forest Lake and some would go to North Branch. Our group, as we sometimes called ourselves, would be split up. For this reason, we wanted to make the summer memorable and exciting. We were looking for a new pastime or an adventure to liven things up. Sure, successfully pulling off a prank on some jerk neighbor brought a satisfying charge, but the routine was starting to get old. The discovery of an old, vacant house couldn't have come at a better time. It was the new adventure we were so desperately craving.
Since only Rhonda and I had seen the house, we thought taking the rest of the group to see it would be fun. Everyone liked it and wanted to fix it. There were five bedrooms in the house and we pretended to each have our own. Mine was the largest, but it was also the ugliest. The walls of "my" room had stains and some small holes. Most of the decor was lime green and completely outdated. But it didn't matter because the house would be used as a place to hang out and avoid nagging parents.
Wandering around the yard on the "new land" as it came to be known, was exciting. The group members pretended to be investigators who were working on important cases. Even though the house had owners, it was obvious that they didn't live there and hadn't for quite some time. Doug, the fearless one, stumbled upon several heavy metal doors in the back yard during the first days of exploring. The metal on the doors looked out of place, almost like it belonged in another century. The doors seemed like they could be full of magic with spirits guarding over them. Doug was older than the rest of the group and took pride in scaring people. "You guys, I bet there are dead things in this thing!" Doug challenged. "I'll open it, if the rest of you stand around." The possibility of something being dead scared us all and made our veins go cold. I remember looking at everyone and seeing the same horror on their faces that I was feeling inside. The paranoia of something popping out of the dark and musty place kicked into high gear. I felt faint as the opening drew near. Doug milked this fear for everything it was worth by pretending he was opening it then yelling "boo!" The funny thing is no one objected to the opening, but inside I secretly prayed that the tomb had been sealed off from the outside world forever. I think everyone else did too. No more kidding. Doug was on a mission to get the lid open. He was having a hard time, however; but this only made him work harder. He never backed down from a fight.
"I finally got it," Doug said. He was exhausted from trying to pry up the edges of the lid for what seemed to have taken an hour. No one spoke. The heavy lid squeaked as he held it open. The tremendous weight of the lid forced Doug to drop it backwards, leaving it's contents visible. Inside the shallow grave lay a handful of dead birds, all of which were missing heads. We jumped back in horror and dismay. The nauseating smell made Rhonda fall to the ground in an uncontrollable vomit attack. I was first to speak: "What kind of people own this place?" "I was only kidding when I said there might be dead things in here!" Doug said. "I didn't think there really was!" Rhonda stood up, now catching her breath.
"I don't want to come back here!" Rhonda said. "What if these people are psychos who pride themselves on killing things? We don't want to get caught here!" Rhonda was genuinely scared , as were the rest of us. Even Doug was scared. He had never lost his cool before and this scared us even more. We vowed not to return.
But temptation got the best of Rhonda and me a few weeks after we vowed not to return. Maybe it was boredom, but we found ourselves pedaling up the driveway one day after softball practice. The plan was to have a low-key evening. We just wanted to sit in the house and talk. The result, needless to say, was anything but that. I can't exactly say why we weren't petrified anymore of being there, but we weren't. It might have had something to do with the alternative of going to the old house - dealing with Rhonda's watchdog mother. She had the amazing ability of knowing exactly when we were talking about boys or sex. Her ears were like radar devices. We could never have a peaceful moment around her, especially if we had juicy gossip to share with one another.
Once inside, I think we knew we had come to the right place. The atmosphere was very tranquil. There was an old sofa in the center of the living room with broken springs. The carpeting was torn and stained and showed evidence of the many previous owners. There were countless boxes filled with antiques and old pictures. It took us two hours to go through all of them. Neither Rhonda or I recognized anyone in the pictures but being in the old house was exciting. We speculated on each person's story and what kind of lives they had. Rhonda lit a cigarette and then we just sat quietly on the sofa looking through pictures, until the smell of smoke became prevalent in the air.
"Oh no, the back of the sofa is on fire!" Rhonda screamed out. "Here grab this towel, we have to get it out!" I said. Suddenly, it seemed like things were in slow motion. Grabbing the towel, which normally would've taken a few moments, seemed to have taken an hour. I remember both of us standing there in complete awe. What were we supposed to do? Should we stay there and keep on trying to maintain the fire, or should we get the hell out of there? Our efforts to put out the fire were proving futile. In a split second it all came together. We had to get out of there! What started out as a small, manageable fire had turned into a full blaze. The whole sofa was completely in flames. I was trying to go faster, to get outside and pedal down the driveway, but my legs were weighed down with cement. My brain was functioning but my body wasn't cooperating. Neither of us could move fast enough. I'm sure we looked ridiculous running around the room and falling down on the ground like complete idiots. Our realization that this was turning into something we couldn't handle was almost totally unspoken. It was like our survival instincts had taken over. If there were any words spoken while we were fumbling to get out of the house, I don't remember because we were stricken with panic.
Thoughts of getting caught filled our heads. Once we made it outside we jumped on our bikes and scurried down the driveway. The mud was so thick, it seemed to be pulling us down into the earth, as if to say, "You will stay here and accept the blame for this!" We went to Rhonda's house and tried to forget about it. Easier said than done. An hour later, we heard fire trucks racing down the road. One right after the other. Rhonda's mom went outside and came back in to say that a house was on fire a mile down the road. We were terrified. It made the reality of what we had done come to life. Would we get caught? It was different this time. We had been in trouble before, but only with our parents, not the police.
I'm sure guilt was written all over our faces, but no one thought to question us. As we walked to the old house with Rhonda's mom, I felt like she knew. I decided I was just being paranoid. Blend in with everyone else. This thought was the key to survival as we stood and watched the house burn. Don't show anything. Copy the astonishment on everyone's faces. Copy their words. I looked down at the two bike trails etched in the mud. I felt numb. Had we really done this? After half an hour of watching the firemen try to get the fire out, we started to walk back to Rhonda's house. Suddenly, an object on the ground three feet in front of me caught my eye. It seemed to be glowing in the night's darkness. It was the "For Sale By Owner" sign. When I saw it I wilted inside because I knew the truth. I was responsible. I was guilty. I did it.
