For as long as I can remember, I have been haunted.
Growing up in a sleepy New England fishing village in a house my great-great grandfather had built, it was commonplace to hear one’s name whispered from a disembodied source or catch a glimpse of a spectral presence out of the corner of one’s eye. But I was never afraid.
In truth, I believe that we are all haunted. Some by spirits, others by the past, all because of the refusal to let go. Whether it be of people, memories, places or objects, that tight grip we maintain on the “before” tethers us to these subjects, even on into the “after.” Often, it is houses that hold on to this energy, perfectly preserving what once was and grasping for what could have been.
In almost every scary story or gothic tale, there is a house. A vessel that carries the frights, stokes the tension and hides the secrets of its inhabitants. Houses hold memories. They bear histories, carved into their foundations and concealed within their walls. Centuries echoing through to the present day, never to be forgotten.
What We Choose To Keep (2023), is a 1/12th scale, handmade dollhouse and corresponding short story that captures the tale of a family, bound to a house for generations, unable to leave, even in death. Through the reconstruction of my own childhood dollhouse, as well as the use of Connecticut folklore and superstitions, this body of work explores my family’s history and poses the question: what does it really mean to be haunted?
WhaT WE CHOOSE TO KEEP
What is a ghost but a memory cloaked
in sorrow and lost in time?
…
We are only what we choose to keep.
Grandpa died last night. Passed in his sleep. “Peaceful,” according to Grandma Olive, who’d woken just as the raising and lowering of his chest began its eternal pause.
Mom says the curse took its time with him. Making him watch his relatives go out like Christmas lights, down the strand, one by one, until it finally put him out like the rest.
Grandma Olive says otherwise.
“Old age,” she grumbles, clearing away the breakfast table and shuffling through the double acting door into the kitchen, taking the coffee pot and the familiar thick stench of roses and sherry with her.
She doesn’t believe in curses.
She’s from the Midwest so she doesn’t carry the same superstitious distrust we born and raised New Englanders wear carved onto our bones.
I don’t blame either of them though, loss has stalked my family for generations. Stooped in the shadows of grief, tying us to this decrepit property, unlovingly referred to as the “family manor” by all, myself included, unlucky enough to call it home. It probably doesn’t help that we’ve buried the rest on the property. None of us Williams can leave. Ever.
I look out over the once-white, lace table cloth, at my mother who is sitting across from me, playing with the untouched grapefruit in front of her. She presses down on the jewel-colored pulp and I watch as the serrated spoon digs into the pith, causing the juice to pool and spill over the sides of the fruit, puddling onto the small plate below. My mind flicks to the daily catch Grandma Olive has lounging on our kitchen counter, dressed in bright white butcher paper, waiting patiently for her pearlescent pocket scaling knife, unaware of the bucket, stained sanguine and russet, waiting patiently for its sacrament.