There are houses, and then there are places that seem to breathe. Maxx Manor, thank you very much—is the latter. She creaks, groans, and sighs with a drama queen’s flair. Some nights, I swear she chuckles. And let me tell you, nothing sends you stumbling for the light switch quite like hearing a Victorian house laugh.
When I inherited the old place from Roxanne, I figured I’d be dealing with plumbing, plaster, and peeling paint. What I didn’t expect were the echoes. Not just sound bouncing off tall ceilings, but whispers. Footsteps where there shouldn’t be feet. A perfume scent curling through the air when I hadn’t sprayed anything in days. The occasional swing of the chandelier when the windows were all closed.
People around town love to share stories about Maxx Manor. They say Roxanne hosted secret parties during Prohibition, wild affairs lit by oil lamps and jazz music drifting through the floorboards. They say tunnels snake beneath the foundation, connecting the house to the lake and beyond. Some even claim she hid fugitives from the law—or worse, from the Steeplepushes.
I can neither confirm nor deny. But I will say this: the house knows things.
There’s a library on the second floor that always smells faintly of tobacco and lemon oil. No one in my family smoked. The scent shows up when I’m reading something important, or something I shouldn’t be reading at all. And then there’s the piano in the music room. It plays exactly three notes on certain nights, always the same ones, like it’s trying to get my attention. Or send a message. Kenzie refuses to go near that room. And Mackenzie (yes, the same soul in canine form) used to tend bar during Roxanne’s speakeasy nights. You do the math.
The strangest moment came two weeks ago, when I was up in the attic sorting through old trunks. I found a journal—leather-bound, clasped shut, and buried under a false bottom. Inside was Roxanne’s handwriting, detailing names, dates, locations of hidden doors and secret meetings. And one line underlined twice: “If the house speaks, listen. It doesn’t waste words.”
I haven’t slept well since.
But here’s the thing: I don’t want to leave. The house feels like mine now, not because I own it, but because we’ve made a kind of uneasy truce. I don’t pretend she’s empty, and she doesn’t slam the doors as often. I think we understand each other.
Some folks say ghosts are trapped souls. I say maybe they’re just memories too strong to fade. And some memories, like some women, refuse to go quietly.
With light always on in the turret, Roxie Maxx
Resident of Maxx Lighthouse. Listener of creaks. Collector of secrets.
