The House We Feared

I grew up in a small town north of Detroit, Michigan. Our neighborhood was one of those started after World War II for families like ours. Veterans returning home ready to start their lives.

They built the neighborhood on old farmland just south of town. The old farmhouse was still there on the main road.

It was a house that looked right out of a horror movie. Especially at night. It was wood sided, two stories, and a front porch that ran the length of the house. It looked like no one lived in it for decades. The white paint had faded away in several areas. The windows appeared to have been there since the house was built. Even from the street, you could see the glass had settled towards the bottom of each window.  Added to that were the old shutters. On windy days, some of them would bang loudly. They always seemed to bang louder at night. At least that is what all of us kids thought.

The front door matched the rest of the house. Faded, old, weathered, and a large lion head door knocker.

 Tall trees and overgrown bushes surrounded the house. The final touch on this house of horrors was the front gate. One hinge was broken, so it would swing back and forth.

Our school bus picked us up on the street corner right across from the house. During the winter, it was dark when we were picked up and dropped off. Perfect time for us boys to scare the girls. I don’t know why, but we loved to tell them tales of the strange old man that lived in the house. Occasionally, when we would ride our bikes past the house, we would see an old man. He was always wearing the same clothes. An old gray long sleeve shirt and overalls.

 I will always remember the first time I walked by with my buddies headed to the corner store. We saw the old man out in front. We stopped. It looked like he was burying something near one of the trees. He saw us and stopped his digging. Then looked at us with a stare just like a movie zombie. All of us were terrified. Though typical for eleven-year-old boys, we all acted as if we were not scared. It was like a standoff. We stared at him, and he stared back. Looking at him, he seemed so old. His hair was white over his ears. His hair appeared as if he hadn’t washed or combed it in years. His face had wrinkles so deep they looked like scars. I bravely said; “Hello sir.”

I will never forget what happened next. The old man raised his shovel and pointed it at us. In a stern voice, he yelled out to us.

“What are you boys looking at?”

With that, he stepped towards us, shaking the shovel as he moved. Shouting again,

“Scat, you little hooligans.”

With that, four terrified boys ran, not stopping once all the way to the corner store. From that moment on, we either walked on the other side of the street or rode our bikes as fast as possible, never looking for the man or at his house.

Of course, every Halloween, we bravely walked by the house. Trying not to let on to your buddies that inside we were terrified. Each Halloween, we would stop by the front gate. One guy would say I bet you are all scared. Of course, that opened it up to the boys going back and forth. Each of them said they weren’t scared. This would go on for several minutes before someone would come to their senses.

“Why are we wasting time at this place? I bet the old man is handing out popcorn balls. There are dozens of homes to hit.”

And a way we would go, each of us breathing an enormous sigh of relief.

Unless you were once an eleven-year-old boy, you have no idea what goes on in their brains. 

I turned fifteen the day before Halloween. I decided I was getting to old for Halloween. So, this would be my last.

Since this was my last trick or treat. I decided to be brave and go up to the old man’s house trick-or-treating. My buddies all said they would come with me. Well, I learned a life lesson about my buddies. I could not count on them. I opened the gate carefully. The one hinge was not holding the gate very well. I was halfway to the porch when I turned around to see my pals still standing outside the gate. Nervous and a little scared, I kept going. Hundreds of thoughts raced through my head in my mind. Was I about to be grabbed and dragged into the old man’s house? Was he going to kill me? Did he have plans to lock me in the basement?

I climbed the porch steps and stood in front of the old, faded door I had seen a hundred times from the street. Turning back towards my friends, I spoke loud enough for them to hear me.

 “Tell my father I was a brave soldier.”

Literally shaking in my boots. I finally got the courage to yell, “Trick or Treat.” Secretly, I hoped the door would not open. It seemed like an eternity. Then I heard the squeaking of the door as it opened. I was so scared that even if I wanted to run away. I could not, my legs would not move. There stood the old man, wearing his gray shirt and overalls. His hair was still long and a mess.

I remember just staring at him. Stammering, I said, “Trick or Treat.”

The man stood there, saying nothing at first. I saw him reach and grab a Hershey bar from a basket sitting on a table by the door. As he handed it to me, he smiled and said how nice it was to have a trick or treater stop at his house.

“No one ever comes to my house.”

I noticed a tear run down his cheek.

I felt sad for the old man. “I am Donny.”

He smiled; “I am George Lick.”

 I could see a smile on his face. Turning around, I yelled to my buddies.

“Get up here! Mr. Lick is giving out real size Hershey bars.”

With that, they all ran up. I watched as Mr. Lick gave them all a couple of Hershey bars. Suddenly this scary old man was no longer scary. All of us stood on the porch talking with him. I asked him if he lived there alone. He looked at the floor and said nothing for a few seconds. Our only child was a B-17 pilot. He died when his plane was shot down over Germany. My wife died shortly after the war of a broken heart. Me, I have lived here alone since.

I asked him if we could stop over and visit him now and then. The smile on his face was huge. “I would love having you boys stop by.”

After that night, we would stop by and sit with him, usually on the porch, and listen to his stories from his youth and what our town was like back then.

I grew up, as did my friends. In 1968, I was drafted and spent two years in the army. I served one tour in Vietnam with the 1st Cavalry Division. While I was there, I received a letter every week from Mr. Lick. He wrote about the happenings in town. How the High School football team was doing. Every letter ended with his writing. “Promise me you will stay safe and come home.”

Well, in March 1969, I came home. My parents picked me up from the bus station. As we drove home, I noticed my father was going in the wrong direction. Before I said anything, we were pulling into the parking lot of the hospital. As we parked, my mother turned and told me about Mr. Lick having cancer. His doctor told them he had little time left. I did not know what to say. I should have known something was wrong because I had not received a letter from him in almost a month.

We went inside and went straight for the visitors’ desk. The nurse told us only one person at a time. My father nodded for me to go in.

There lying was the old man that once terrified me. This was the first time I saw him without his long sleeve shirt and overalls on. He was covered by a bedsheet and wearing a hospital gown. His hair was cut and cleaned. He was surrounded by machines, wires, and tubes.

Standing over his bed, I reached down and grabbed his hand. I started to cry when I heard this low voice say, “Donny, for God’s sake, I am not dead.” Then a laugh. I bent over and gave him a hug.

He told me how sharp I looked in my uniform and how proud he was of me. I could not help but cry. Here was a man that, as a child, I was terrified of. A man that turned out to be a good man and a good friend. One that never forgot me during my time in the army.

Talking was a struggle for him. I tried to stop him and asked him to rest.

“Donny, I know my time here is coming to an end. I will join my wife and son. Thanks to you and your family, I was never alone. I have been so proud of you, and I thanked God when your mother told me you were coming home. I had been worried about you for that entire year. On my table at home is an envelope for you. Stop on your way home and get it. Please.”

He had tears in his eyes, and as I bent over, tears ran down my cheeks. With a struggle to talk he reached out and took my hand in his. 

"Donny I wanted to tell you something."

He gasped for air.

"Over these past years. I have come to think you as a son." 

Before he could say anything. A nurse came and told me it was time to leave. The doctor was coming in to check on Mr. Lick.

I bent over and gave him a hug. Telling him I loved him. In a whispering voice. He managed to say, “I love you, Donny.”

I told him I would be up to visit him the next morning.

He smiled and said; “Goodbye Donny. I love you.”

As I walked out of the room. I thought about the way he said goodbye. It just seemed different.

I told my father about the envelope.

We stopped by the house. There on the table was a large manilla envelope with my name on the outside. I planned on opening it when I got home. However, my parents had a surprise for me. My family and friends were there to welcome me home. Even though I was having a good time. I could not shake the thought of Mr. Lick’s goodbye.

That night, we received a phone call from his doctor. He told me that Mr. Lick had passed away at 2:30AM. The good of it all was he had died in his sleep. No pain, no suffering. He was at peace, joining his wife and son. Now his goodbye made sense. Somehow, he knew he would die before we saw each other again. My father hugged me and told me.

“Mr. Lick’s doctor told us the day before you came home, he felt Mr. Lick was staying alive, only for one reason, to see you.”

Since Mr. Lick was a veteran of the First World War. The local Veterans of Foreign Wars were going to take care of the funeral arrangements and burial. My father assured me that Mr. Lick’s funeral would be one the man deserved. It was.

When we came home from the burial, I remembered his envelope. I sat on my bed and opened it. Inside were several papers, a bank book, and a letter. I read the letter first.

“Dear Donny,

You have made an old man’s last year’s happy ones. Your visits and our talks helped me grow out of the dark days of my life. I never told you this. I made your parents promise not to tell you while you were in Vietnam that I had cancer. I wanted you to concentrate on your job and come home safe.

The day your mother stopped over and gave me the good news you were safe and coming home was one of the happiest days of my life. I pray God will keep me here so I can tell you in person. That I have thought of you as a son.

You are my family now, so this envelope has papers signing my home and everything in it over to you. Plus, all the money in my bank account. There is more than enough for you to repair the old house. The rest will help you get started on your new life.

My hope is one day you will marry and raise a family in the house. It deserves to live again. To hear the voices of children laughing. A house that children will want to come to on Halloween.

Love George.”

I promised him that day. I would see his dream come true, and I did. I married two years later to my high school sweetheart. Together, we raised three boys and two girls. Now today, I am the old man of the house. The joy in the house lives on, with a dozen grandchildren running around the house and yard.

I keep a picture of Mr. Lick, his wife and son on my desk. When I look at it, I know he could not be happier.