1998: Linnet Street 14 [Chapter 4]

Chapter 4: The Haunting of Linnet Street

The knowledge of what had happened on the land beneath our feet did nothing to ease the growing sense of dread that clung to me. If anything, it made it worse. Every creak, every cold draft, every flicker of the lights now felt like a direct link to the tragic past of the Perón Farm. The name Gordon Perón haunted my thoughts, though I never spoke it out loud. It was as if acknowledging it would give it more power, make it more real. But it didn’t matter whether I said the name or not—something in that house knew I knew, and it wasn’t going to let me forget.

The phenomena in the house escalated. What had started as subtle disturbances—an out-of-place object, a whisper in the night—soon became impossible to ignore. The temperature in the house seemed to plummet as soon as the sun went down, the warmth of the day giving way to a biting cold that seeped into my bones. I’d lie awake at night, clutching my blankets, listening to the sounds of the house settling around me, trying to convince myself that it was just the wind, just the old wood groaning under the weight of years. But deep down, I knew better.

One night, I was sitting at the kitchen table, trying to focus on my homework, when the lights began to flicker. It was subtle at first, just a dimming of the overhead bulb, but then it started to pulse, like someone was flipping the switch on and off, on and off. I stared at the light, frozen in my seat, my heart pounding in my chest. The air grew colder, and I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I wasn’t alone.

The flickering continued, faster now, the light stuttering like a heartbeat. I looked around, but there was no one there—just the empty kitchen, the shadows stretching across the floor like dark fingers reaching out to grab me. I wanted to run, to bolt upstairs to my room and hide under the covers, but my legs wouldn’t move. I was paralyzed by fear, my breath coming in short, shallow gasps.

And then, as quickly as it had started, it stopped. The light snapped back to full brightness, the coldness in the air dissipating as if it had never been there. I sat there for a long moment, staring at the light, waiting for something else to happen. But the kitchen was still, the silence deafening. It was like the house was playing tricks on me, testing how much I could take before I broke.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was all connected—that the land, the house, and the tragic history of the Perón family were somehow intertwined. And worse, I couldn’t help but notice the eerie similarities between Duane’s behavior and what little I knew about Gordon Perón. The more I thought about it, the more the parallels became impossible to ignore.

Duane’s drinking had taken on a new edge—one that wasn’t just fueled by alcohol. His outbursts were more violent, his temper more unpredictable, and there were moments when I swore he wasn’t himself at all. He’d sit in the living room, staring off into space, his eyes glassy and unfocused, mumbling to himself in a way that reminded me of the stories I’d heard about Gordon’s last days on the farm. It was like he was channeling something—someone—from the past, someone filled with anger, with bitterness, with despair.

I tried to talk to Yvonne about it, to tell her that something was wrong, that Duane’s behavior was more than just stress or alcohol. But she wouldn’t hear it. She was too caught up in her own struggles, too determined to keep everything together. She refused to see the truth, even as it was staring her in the face.

“Christer, please,” she said one night, her voice weary as she sat at the edge of my bed. “I know things have been tough, but Duane is going through a hard time. He’s working long hours, and he’s trying his best. We all just need to give him some space, some understanding. It’s just stress—it’ll pass.”

“But, Mom,” I insisted, my voice trembling. “It’s not just that. There’s something wrong with him. He’s… different. And the house… the house is—”

“Christer,” she interrupted, placing a hand on my shoulder. “You’re just tired, sweetheart. We’re all tired. Moving is hard, and adjusting to a new place takes time. But this is our home now, and we have to make the best of it. We have to stay strong.”

I wanted to scream, to shake her and make her see what I was seeing, what I was feeling. But her eyes were so full of exhaustion, so full of the weight she was carrying, that I couldn’t bring myself to push any further. She wouldn’t believe me, no matter what I said. She was blind to the danger, trapped in her own world of denial.

So I kept quiet, swallowing my fear and pretending that everything was okay. I went through the motions, going to school, taking care of Therése and Rickard, trying to keep the peace in a house that was anything but peaceful. But inside, I was falling apart. The isolation was suffocating, the burden of carrying these secrets crushing me from the inside out.

The nights were the worst. Duane would come home late, stumbling through the door reeking of booze, his eyes wild and unfocused. He’d slump into his chair in the living room, the same spot every night, and drink until he passed out. But it wasn’t the drinking that scared me the most—it was the way he looked at me, the way his eyes would darken, his voice would drop, and he’d say things that didn’t make sense, things that felt like they were meant for someone else, someone who wasn’t me.

“Do you think you can take this from me?” he hissed one night, his words slurred but laced with venom. “You think you can just walk in here and take what’s mine? I built this. This is my land, my life. You’re nothing. Nothing.”

I didn’t respond, didn’t dare move. I just stood there, my heart pounding in my chest, trying to make sense of what he was saying. It was like he was talking to someone else, someone from another time, another place. And the more he drank, the more I could see the madness creeping into his eyes, the same madness that had driven Gordon Perón to take his own life.

It was as if the past was bleeding into the present, the lines between then and now blurring until I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t escape it.

Yvonne remained oblivious to the growing darkness in our home. She refused to see the signs, refused to acknowledge the fear in Therése’s eyes, the way Rickard would cling to me whenever Duane was around. She was too busy trying to hold everything together, too focused on her work, on paying the bills, on making sure there was food on the table. She didn’t have the energy to face the truth, to see that the man she loved was slipping further and further away from her.

And so I was left alone, trapped in a house that was becoming more hostile by the day, a house that seemed determined to break me.

I started to wonder if there was any way out, if there was any escape from the nightmare we were living in. But the more I thought about it, the more hopeless it seemed. The darkness was growing, closing in around me, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

One night, after Duane had passed out in the living room, I crept downstairs, my heart pounding in my chest. The house was silent, the air thick with that familiar coldness. I moved quietly, trying not to wake him, but as I reached the bottom of the stairs, I heard it—a low, guttural growl, coming from the shadows in the corner of the room.

I froze, my breath catching in my throat. The growl grew louder, more menacing, and I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I wanted to run, to get as far away from that sound as possible, but my legs wouldn’t move. I was rooted to the spot, my eyes locked on the darkness that seemed to pulse and shift in the corner.

And then, just as quickly as it had started, the growl stopped. The room fell silent once more, the shadows retreating back into their corners. I stood there for a long moment, my heart hammering in my chest, trying to make sense of what had just happened. But there was no explanation, no rational way to explain the fear that gripped me.

I backed away slowly, my hands trembling as I made my way back up the stairs. I didn’t sleep that night. I just lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of the house around me, waiting for something else to happen.