“Footsteps: Part One.” Fiction. Based on a True Living Space

               “As If a Void had Been Filled That I Wasn’t Aware Of.” — Nahko Bear

“Foot Steps. Part One.”

Fiction. Based on a True Living Space.


This journal entry is inspired by true events. Some of the characters, names, businesses, incidents, and certain locations and events have been fictionalized for dramatic purposes. Any similarity to the name, character or history of any person is entirely coincidental and unintentional




The address of my first home was 408 East Northside Drive. Some creative genius had the house built in 1949. I knew he or she was a creative genius from the details of the house. Each room led somewhere new, someplace different.  The details…that’s what got me.

After entering the double doors, the first room was the parlor. That’s where I put the coat hanger, key holder, chair, a small table, and painting of a baptism that vividly reminded me of the time that Elder Benson tried to drown me in the pool. I liked remembering that I was supposed to be a changed woman. I forget sometimes.

From the parlor, you had three options. To the right, there was a hall, a bathroom, and two bedrooms, one of which was mine.  On the left was the kitchen, and straight ahead was the living room. The living room branched off into another bedroom, and that bedroom and the kitchen merged paths and led to the dining room with the fireplace and mantle where I showcased the kid’s trophies. Past the dining room was another hall, a half bath, and a basement that I’d designated as the kids playroom. The weird thing about the basement was that two of the walls were covered in huge floor length mirrors. Now unfortunately, I’m not a porn star, nor am I practicing for the pole. Unfortunately my life is not as exciting as that. So the mirrors were of no use to me.

But the loft… that was my sanctuary. It was constructed entirely out of wormwood. There was a secret window that allowed me to look out at the yard and onto the street. In one corner, I put an antique writing desk. In another turn was a more modern desk for the computer. Both were vital in the completion of the five novels I’d been working on since I was seventeen years old.  I was approaching thirty-three and a lifetime of hard labor had given me early signs of arthritis. My biggest fear was no longer being able to hold a pencil.

The mistake I made upon moving in was not performing my cleansing ritual. Throughout my life, whenever I felt stressed or uneasy, I’d light a bundle of sage and purify my surroundings. I didn’t do that when I moved into my house despite feeling weird. I thought I had a case of the first home jitters. I thought it was nothing really, and so I ignored it.

However, I was wrong. It was something.


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