It’s October—and flocks of geese have been flying over my house as they migrate south for the winter (although to me it always looks as if they are flying west). It is the time of year in which my dogs run through the house baying at the ceiling as they hear their honks, then trip into the walls and doorframes and over each other because they weren’t paying any attention at all to where they were going.
It seems like not that long ago I was out with the dogs in the backyard, watching as a flock of migrating ducks landed in the neighbor’s pond for the night. They splashed around and quacked to each other—almost like they were discussing everything they’d seen that day on their travels. Then, quite suddenly, they all went quiet just like someone had told them to shut up and go to sleep.
I should probably explain about the neighbor’s pond though. It’s a man-made, but it’s big enough to have its own dock and a two-person boat. And the yard it sits in is probably the biggest in the neighborhood The house itself is much, much larger and much grander than the houses that surround it. Or at least I think it is—it’s up on a hill and hidden from view by a mess of trees and shrubbery. The owner lives elsewhere, rarely visits, and won’t sell (according to someone I met once who tried to buy it from her). I’ve been told there is a caretaker, but I’ve never seen anyone there ever. At night sometimes I’ve heard something large crashing around the grounds (the locals tell me it’s either deer or drunken teenagers, but I’m not ruling out ghosts or the jersey devil quite yet).
God, I love that house. Seriously, it's like every haunted house or spooky mansion from every scary or mysterious book I ever read. It is The Westing Game, The Headless Cupid, Nancy Drew, and Scooby Doo all rolled into one. And someday I'm going to write about it.