I told my mother when I was about 3 that I didn't like the lady in the basement, or that she kept trying to make me "put my hand in the wall." She asked what lady and I said from the picture and took her to the basement. Hidden away in a closet were a bunch of old photos and a weird, painted portrait, really old fashioned.

The woman was the previous owner of the house, which was not owned by her brother, our landlord. She had died in the basement while trying to do laundry, as she was advanced in age and stubborn about getting help in spite of her bad health. The portrait was apparently some family tradition, the brother had one, too, and so did his parents. A lot of her things were still in the house we were renting.

After we found the portrait, I took her to a wall and told her the hole was there. My mom moved some boxes out of the way and, sure enough, there was a hole about the size of a child's fist on the ground being covered. I still remember showing her the hole, vaguely. I also remember seeing the woman wandering around down there, in a sort of dreamlike memory kind of way. Super tiny woman, face kind of obscured by wrinkles in a way that is hard to explain because in retrospect it didn't look natural but to a kid, she just had a weird face. And wearing a white nightgown with little flowers on it.

Anyway, my mom had always been creeped out by the basement, but I played down there. I wasn't allowed to play down there anymore.

Growing up, I remembered the lady and the hole, but nothing else. And she never discussed it again. We lived there the rest of the year, then moved as soon as we could (my dad didn't believe in any of it). But it wasn't until I brought up the old lady when we were talking about the house, at 16, that my mom filled in the blanks. Which was crazy to me, because in my mind I thought the old lady who owned the house would just come over in her nightgown, and that she was just kind of a b***h about the wall hole.

She really, really wanted me to reach in there.