The other day I was Googling for something . . . who knows what now . . . and I came across some pictures of a house in North Carolina. The picture of it as it stood, all dilapidated, in the 1950s, grabbed me. Something about old houses just pokes a tendril of interest into my heart and soul and wants to draw me in through the doorways. When I met Rose and read her A Pub with no beer...a pitiful piano...and untold stories, it seemed serendipitous, so I'm revisiting the Hill-Jones House with you. If you're in the mood, go and look at the other photos of the house and see if they give you just the slightest frisson of je ne sais quoi. It's the same feeling that I had when I was very young, and would go up the plain dusty outside stairway from the woodshed to the long-unused hired man's room. Nothing in that room but an unmattressed iron bedstead and some stupid determined buzzing iridescent blue flies bouncing against the four glass panes of the small window. It's a sense of lives being lived right alongside mine . . . parallel universe stuff. Creepy. But not, too.
Here's the upstairs hall of the Hill-Jones House, three rooms to each side.
I'm pretty sure I wouldn't want to be hurrying out of that door at the right
in the middle of the night unless I were absolutely wide awake and steady.
The Hill-Jones house.
Built about 1855.
Located at 301 Masonic Avenue.