The tell-tale lamps
Estate sales, yard sales, garage sales, and the like are a special type of torture for me. I have never liked them. Thrift stores. Just the smell of these places can cause my stomach to churn.
I can’t help to think of how much of the junk in these places belonged to someone that’s no longer with us. Maybe it’s my overly active imagination or artist’s brain. When I look at an old suit or shirt I can’t help but picture some old codger slipping away, all that stuff still in their closet. Then a tired and overwhelmed loved one grabbing everything in there and putting it in a trash bag to give away.
We had all this “family” furniture, including a table that had been my greatgreat-grandmother’s. Every Sunday we would sit around it for a meal and every Sunday my dad would get a glaze over his eyes and start talking about how many different generations had eaten at that table. All I could do is look at my mashed potatoes and imagine ghosts sitting around me. When we would eat with my greatgreat-grandmother’s old silverware, I would think of all the ghosts that used that same fork, some of which I saw in toothless, pre-ghost form, and I’d shudder and think how I’d rather whittle my own utensil out of a tree branch.
I am not an overly spiritual or superstitious person but given the experiences I’ve had, I am not going to rule anything out. Perhaps it is because I’m a wasteful American, but I tend to prefer new items. I do not want the baggage that comes with antiques. Unfortunately, I am married to someone who does not feel this way.
Recently, my wife wanted to pick up a pair of antique lamps from an estate sale she found online. Being the good Samaritan I am, I agreed to join her because you never really know about these places.
When we got to the sale, it was apparent to me that whoever lived in the house was not of the living anymore.
The lamps she liked were nice but when we plugged them in, one didn’t work. The nice fellow administering the sale gave them to us for free, but then my wife found another set of lamps that she also wanted.
I shook my head because I knew there was no way to prevent these lamps from coming home. They were immediately creepy to me. They looked like they came out of some haunted, midcentury Bavarian hotel.
They were wooden, carved, and painted over with little birds and symbols, orange and green. From the base to the top of the lampshade I would say they probably stood three and a half feet tall. The lampshade was made out of burlap and looked like it would give you a rash just rubbing up against it. When they were turned on there was barely enough dim light to read by. But hey, who am I to say what’s good or not? If I were left to decorate we’d have nothing more than some camping chairs and a television.
Everything was fine and dandy until we brought these things home and she decided to put them in the bedroom.
I tried to fall asleep but all I could think about were the stories these lamps could tell. Had they seen murders? Were they cursed? Were they part of some pagan ritual in the old country? Who’s to say. All I know is that every night those lamps were in our room I didn’t sleep. Every time I opened my eyes, the lamps were staring back at my soul.
The lamps have been sold now. The entire time they were here I felt an overwhelming urge to destroy them. Their eerie glow, calling to me, begging me to break them into a million pieces. I am grateful they are gone but I have a feeling I’ll see them again. If not at another creepy estate sale, perhaps a tragic news story or paranormal investigation series.