When we moved to Laurel and Holly, the first room I explored was the crawl space under the house. The closing got delayed a week, and I was impatient to get started on my labors. The seller agreed to let me work under the house, the theory being, I suppose, that I couldn’t do much harm down there if the sale fell through.

I’m sure he had no idea about my extensive plans. For those of you unfamiliar with the architecture in Oregon Hill, let me fill you in. These houses were built in the late 19th century for the mill workers. They weren’t constructed with the finer elements of houses in the Fan. They were built sturdy and practical. No need for basements, just some brick foundations and a couple feet of space best suited for visiting spiders or rodents.

Too small for a man to move around in, the space called out to me. It was April, and I suited up with an old winter jacket for the padding. I crawled in with a work light on a 50 foot extension and some old compost bags. They’re the best for the heavy stuff. Then I began collecting trash from around the opening as I inched in on hands and knees. By the midpoint of the house you’re on your belly, because of the narrowed clearance. Rusty fragments, broken glass, candy wrappers from recent workmen. Bags of the stuff. Then I raked out the rocks and remaining rubble. Two days down.

Next I rolled out the plastic, 10 mil thick, for a vapor barrier. Wrapped the pipes with insulating foam. Filled the cracks in the foundation connecting our house to the one next door. Installed a vent for air flow. That was three more days. Our neighbors must have thought I was crazy, crawling into my hole each day.

Found out later, the space was a toxic waste dump. They had had to lime the whole house because it had been trashed by the semi-feral animals living there for years with their semi-feral human.  The workers had to suit up with masks when they sanded the floors because the fumes were so bad. It’s amazing I didn’t get sick and die from breathing that air for a week.

Sometimes it’s best not to know.

First night in the new place, it’s 11:30 at night. We’re just about to fall asleep in our nice new bedroom amidst the boxes. We’re both looking up at the ceiling, feeling the excitement of a new place, when suddenly we hear a boom boom going by. The car stops at the sign, right outside our window, and we hear the heavy beat. Tires screech, car moves on. Two minutes later, same thing. It turns out that the Hiller kids like to cruise around the ten block neighborhood, around and around, for fun. Stereos cranking.

“So you think we made a mistake moving here?” I asked. “Do you think we should have done a little more research?”

‘Sometimes it’s best not to know,” my sensible half replied.

A few days after we moved in, a couple of sloshed tent dwellers from the canal below took the time to share their thoughts. “You guys know about the ghost?” they asked. “You are awful brave to move into a house with a ghost.”

“Uh, don’t think we heard about that. A ghost?”

“Yeah, you know. Mike. The guy who used to live here, who was murdered.”

“Huh?”

“You didn’t know about that? Yeah, Mike had a homeless guy living with him. Stabbed him to death on the front porch. Blood everywhere. Took Mike’s car and put his body in the trunk, then stopped in Fredericksburg for the night. Cops got ‘im there.”

“So,” they said after another swig, “That there house is haunted.”

We went back inside our new place. With the renovated porch. We looked at each other.

“Sometimes it’s best not to know,” I said.