Saturday Stories: Evans' Place Up in Smoke

Photo credit: jdurham from morguefile.com

It was an old, white, two-story house. It wasn’t completely abandoned, but vacant. The owner was alive but didn’t live in it and didn’t want anyone else to, either.

The other house was also an old, two-story house, but it was yellow and lived in. It was from the second story window of this house, crouched down in the soft yellow carpet, eyes barely above the window ledge that I watched the white house burn to the ground, wondering what would become of me if the flames jumped over to the yellow house.



The yellow house belonged to my fiancé’s parents and they didn’t know that I was there.

Earlier in the day, I had seen a man hanging around the white house. He was carrying a milk jug that contained a tea-colored liquid. Something didn’t feel right about the whole thing. I had a feeling that house wasn’t long for this world. Someone had been burning down vacant houses in town and this one was on his list. I could feel it.

I told David what I saw and he called the police. The chief came over and talked to David about it. I was afraid to talk to them for fear of being blamed if it did get torched. David said that the chief looked into the window of the house and said it would go up pretty fast.

I watched the massive red flames, heard the fire crackling, the sirens blaring, and the voice inside my head saying “See? You were right!” There were many more of these “feelings” that would happen over the years.

The fire was put out. The white house was gone. What a waste of a great old house.

I don’t know if they ever found the man or that milk jug, or if any other abandoned houses were burned after that one. But, the night of flames, window sill paint smell, and yellow carpet on my knees is one that stays with me thirty years later.



Note: The white house pictured above is a representative image of the house that burned. I do not have any pictures of the actual house referred to in this story.