Hymns in the Playroom

We moved into the fixer-upper at the end of the block. I had cringed at the idea of a renovation project, but it remained our only option. My husband, Paul, and I had scrimped and saved for years, but no amount of overtime or academic degrees ever caught us up to the economy. 

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We also put off having children. We hoped to own a place before having kids, but I quickly passed my 31st and 32nd birthdays with no home in sight. So, at 33, we started trying. Not long after our daughter, Michelle, arrived. She came in silent at first, eyes squished tight, and rolled on her side. The nurses firmly and gently shook her until she opened her plushy peach lips and let out her first cry.

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She was perfect, and I was unprepared. I don’t even think I registered her birth until several days later. Everything moved so fast, and the sleep deprivation kept me in a fog. I had spent ten months training in everything from infant CPR to breastfeeding, and now that my daughter had been born, I felt clueless. Paul would look at me resentfully, like a woman who couldn’t get her shit together. 

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The nurses taught me to swaddle her at least 40 times. She always cried before I could get her fed, consistently messed up the times I needed to pump, and I never got the cradle cap to disappear. I was hopeless.

 

Eventually, after the sleep deprivation and self-doubt alleviated, I semi-got the handle on parenting. Days became more manageable as she learned to walk and feed herself. Life was good, then. We still lived in the city and endeavored to make our shoebox one-bedroom apartment work for the three of us. 

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However, as the idea of her attending school approached, we knew something would have to change. The city schools were challenging to get into for preschool, and we couldn’t keep paying for private care with our salaries, as a result we bought a house in the suburbs.

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I wasn’t even sure you could call it the suburbs. It was that far away from the city, but our realtor swore up and down that it was, and we weren’t in a position to argue. We had looked at several options that didn’t seem worth the paycheck. Eventually we settled on a two-bedroom house advertised as ‘needing a little TLC.’

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The house lay at the end of a block in a cul-de-sac, a lovely staple in the Midwest suburbs. It was a quaint, run-down white house with fading red brick chimneys holding it up on either side. We chuckled when we walked in and noticed the puke-green carpet. ​

 

It would take a year to fully renovate, but we moved in three months into the process due to our lease ending at our apartment in the city. This made Paul upset. He loved the city and never wanted to move anyway. 

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Michelle immediately took to the space, exploring and running in and out of the screen door to the newly fenced-in backyard. Our neighbors were friendly, and the preschool we had chosen did well in helping Michelle transition. 

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I began to fall into my new routine as well. I would get up, meditate, run, make breakfast with my family, then drive Michelle to school and rush back to meet whoever was working on the house that day. Paul and I both worked remotely. It wasn’t the easiest thing to do with people working on our home, Paul’s frustration from the noise and intrusions would build up into seemingly random outbursts. 

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Paul and I had met through mutual friends at church. He seemed sweet and cute. I remember not being too excited about him the first time, but my feelings grew as we gradually got to know each other. 

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I had always been instructed by my parents that I needed to get married one day. Anybody woman who experiences a strict religious upbringing is familiar with the “never divorce, always submit to your husband” rule. Admittedly, I am a rule-follower, I find that following rules within a community always keep you safe.‘Get Married,’ remained on my to-do list until I met Paul.

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After we married, we moved into that one-bedroom shoebox apartment in a bustling city neighborhood perfect for young professionals like us. Paul thrived in the city. He dreamed of big city living since he being little. He badly wanted to stay in the city to raise a family, but we lacked the wealth. 

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When we moved to our house in the suburbs, the bathroom worked, and one bedroom had heat and fresh paint. We slept in that bedroom with Michelle on a toddler camping mattress at our feet. The bedrooms, kitchen, and a small front room with a tiny working fireplace lay on the main floor. 

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Just off the kitchen, steps led down to a lower-level entertaining area and the only bathroom. It had a large working fireplace and several storage closets. It wasn’t underground; several windows were placed around the room so you could look out and see grass at eye level. Michelle and I reserved this place as our play area.​

 

We had a projector that we would set up to watch movies on Friday nights. Board games and toys filled random bins. When contractors came to replace the cabinets in our kitchen one weekend, Michelle and I hid away downstairs to play dress-up while Paul stayed upstairs.

 

We enjoyed life for a bit until “those” things started happening. I don’t know how to categorize them, and I fear I will sound slightly off my hinge when I do. But over time, we noticed certain unusual things happening around the home.​

 

It wasn’t much at first. The feeling if being watched when we were down in the playroom and occasionally at night. I would sit up randomly at 2 or 3 a.m., feeling like someone was trying to wake me, but after seeing no one, I would shrug it off. Besides, Michelle never seemed bothered by it, and I didn’t want to annoy Paul with something I felt unsure about.

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The noises started up soon after. First, they sounded like workers hammering during the day even though it was nighttime. Then they sounded like creaks in an old house undergoing refurbishing. I would search the closets and rooms for where they might be coming from but never found the source.​

 

Last, came the movements: books flipping over, random materials going missing, or objects being knocked over. Once or twice, I told myself that it was in my mind. I would catch what was happening at the end of it and think maybe a draft was in the house or that the object wasn’t steady. But the way they moved made it appear like it took effort.

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The worst place became the downstairs playroom. I tried hard to keep my nerves at bay. I wanted Michelle to feel safe with me. Whenever something went bump, thump, or fly, I would loudly sing the old Christian hymns I grew up with. “How Great Thou Art” and the Doxology were in common rotation.

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Paul felt it, too. He was constantly on edge. The energy of his irritation ran like an electric current through his bones. His presence often filled the air with more tension. ​

 

I began to take Michelle out of the house more when she was home from school. We explored our new suburb, went to every park in the area, and started a running list of all the new restaurants we wanted to try. Michelle seemed happier out of the house anyway. ​

 

Then, one Sunday, it rained heavily, and I didn’t feel like gearing up and driving in the puddles on the roads, so we decided to stay home. After all, the past two days had been mostly quiet. The only casualty was a glass breaking against the wall. 

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Most of the day went well. Michelle and I ate breakfast and read books downstairs while the workers cut material for the kitchen counters upstairs. Somewhere around 3 pm, it broke down. I don’t know what triggered it; I can’t say. All I know is that objects began to fly off the walls. ​

 

Workers began shouting, loud booms came from every corner of the home, and the carpets we had just put down were ripped up. Michelle started screaming with her tiny hands clasped around her ears. I began to belt hymns while cradling her in my arms. I remember being afraid to lift my head for fear something would hit me. 

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Then Michelle wriggled out of my arms. Screaming, she ran up the stairs and out of the front door, which had slammed wide open. I yelled her name to get her to stop and ran after her, dodging objects whizzing past my head. 

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Her little legs had carried her fast and far. She was screaming something I couldn’t make out. I kept calling her name, hoping she would turn around. It is hard to settle a toddler. After a while, I noticed something else. I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me, but then I realized I was looking at my husband chasing Michelle. I hadn’t noticed him before, but now, I didn’t like his gait. His running seemed aggressive. ​

 

Then he stopped, turning around; he stared me down, eyes wide and searing into mine. I felt sick, dizzy even. He appeared to be holding Michelle. I wasn’t aware he had caught up to her. She was still saying something, but I couldn’t make it out.

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Then he started yelling, barking orders like a sergeant. He did have Michelle in his arms. Holding her little body still against his, his hands nearly squeezing her little stomach to keep her still. Then I heard what she was saying. Her little lisped voice pleading, “Stop, Daddy, stop. No more throwing things!”

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I had never been sure if the things I was hearing or seeing were in my imagination or if someone else was causing them. It was a stressful time, and Paul never managed his stress well…