Grave's End - Softcover

Elaine Mercado is a wife and mother of two daughters, registered nurse, Certified Clinical Hypnotherapist, and entrepreneur.  She holds a license as an LPN and as a registered nurse. Mercado has worked in the health care field for over nine years as a medical-surgical registered nurse and registered nurse in Brooklyn, New York’s Coney Island hospital emergency room.  

During her tenure as an emergency room nurse, Mercado developed an interest in the psychological aspects of patient care and thus, began studying the mind, body, and spirit connection. At the same time, Mercado began to focus on paranormal phenomena.  For over fifteen years, she has studied and attended numerous lectures and workshops on types of hauntings and the current theories behind them.  Mercado, a locally published writer, has also written for The Brooklyn Baron and The Nursing Spectrum.   

She is an American Heart Association Certified CPR Instructor, and operates a business with her second husband called Learning For Life, offering CPR training to hospital and hotel personnel.  Mercado still lives in Gravesend with her family.

In the early fall of l982 my husband and I were on our way to look at what was apparently the last affordable house in Brooklyn, New York. We'd been house-hunting for over a year and were very anxious to settle into a home of our own.

At this point in time we were still living in a three-room apartment with our two daughters. Our landlord was extremely frugal with the heat, and we were growing tired of huddling in our living room near a portable heater. We were willing to look at virtually any house within our price range, but we had only a small sum of money available for a down payment. Real-estate agents took us from house to house, showing us lovely homes that, unfortunately, required substantial deposits.

We thought we were permanently stymied until we noticed this one house on their listing. It had been there for over two years, but no one had attempted to show it to us.

"It's too old and too much trouble," one of the brokers said, barely looking up at us, "although you might actually be able to afford this one." The sarcasm in her voice was duly noted. However, we were undaunted by her negative description of the house. We wanted to see it.

So, there we were, full of anticipation, parking our car on this very ordinary block. I was in a very "up" mood that day, partly because I had hopes this would be "the" house, partly because it was fall. September and October had always been my favorite months. The smell of cool air and the vision of trees painted in glowing hues of orange and red and yellow signaled the upcoming holiday season. This particular block had many trees, all colored so vibrantly that the whole area had a beautiful orange cast to it. Newly fallen leaves were gathered in bunches near most of the houses and they crunched beneath our feet as we walked to our latest prospect. I thought of pumpkin pie and chestnuts, and my heart leapt at the thought that perhaps, at last, we had found a house we could actually purchase. Maybe we could even spend Christmas there. I had to stop myself from skipping toward our destination.

As we were walking down the street, I noticed an unusual tree. Not only were its leaves a strikingly colored mixture of orange and red, but it appeared to be almost caressing the house in front of which it was planted. Its trunk was tilted toward the house, with almost no branches extending toward the street. Its branches and foliage sprung out like long arms, almost protectively. When we realized this was the tree in front of the house we were to look at, I felt an unusual sense of peace. I was, without obvious reason, very glad this wonderful, strong tree would be part of the package. I didn't know then that this house, indeed, needed whatever protection it could get.

The house itself was one of those big, old, fat houses; the kind they simply don't build anymore. It was whitish-gray with dark green trim, and rather dingy looking.

In retrospect I could imagine someone describing it as "spooky" looking, but "spooky" was the last thing on our minds. The front yard, not very large, was unkempt. Weeds were growing along the chainlink fence that surrounded it. The four entrance steps were made out of weather-beaten, cracked cement. The wrought-iron railing attached to these steps was rusted and peeling. The front windows, many small ones separated by strips of rotting wood, were nearly opaque with dirt.

For a brief moment, my husband and I looked at each other, wondering if this was such a good idea after all, but we knew our financial situation, and neither one of us wanted to spend another winter with our not-so-friendly landlord. So we took a deep breath and rang the doorbell, half expecting it not to work. To our surprise, we were greeted by a rather pleasant, if somewhat cool, middle-aged couple. They smiled as they brought us up to the second floor of this grand old house.

As we walked up the stairs we were wondering what would be the problem this time. We'd seen so many houses that we developed a knee-jerk reaction of not getting our hopes up. It was hard not to think that, even if the price was right, there would be something terribly wrong. Perhaps there were combative neighbors, or mud in the cellar, or exposed sewer pipes in the kitchen. We'd seen it all by this time. To our surprise, this couple mentioned only one dominant problem¿the elderly couple living downstairs. They refused to leave.

"My uncle is one tough cookie," remarked the middle-aged man, his nephew, about the old gentleman inhabiting the first floor apartment. As he reached the top of the stairs, he continued, "My uncle and aunt have been living in this house for over forty years. They sold it to us a few years back and have been paying a nominal rent ever since. I guess he thought this arrangement would go on forever, but our children are grown now and my wife and I bought a house in Florida. We are anxious to leave but my uncle keeps scaring prospective buyers off by declining to move."

My husband and I certainly didn't like the sound of that.

In a few short moments, we found ourselves on the second floor, in the front living room, with windows overlooking the aforementioned beautiful tree. The decor was very bland, no pictures on the walls, no outstanding furniture. It looked like a 1950s motel room. Working our way toward the back of the house, we were introduced to the bathroom, which appeared relatively new. Green and white tiles gleamed at us, reflecting the light on the ceiling. Towels hung on the towel racks, but no pictures or designs of any sort adorned the walls. The shower curtains were, again, green and white, but with no distinguishing pattern. The bathroom was very clean, almost sanitary, but decorated with no imagination, no feeling.

Next to the bathroom was a dining area, connected to a kitchen. Dark wood cabinets dominated this room, and pink, painted-over paneling covered the walls. It wasn't a salmon pink or a "hot" pink, just a dull, almost beige pink, going from ceiling to floor. I could see the texture of the paneling showing through the paint and I wondered why anyone would impose such a nauseating color over wood. I figured I would never find curtains to match this unfortunate hue, but before I could get too upset about the dining room and kitchen, our hosts ushered us into what they termed "the playroom." There, in the back of the house, was a beautiful, spacious area, lined with double windows. It was huge.

"This was built only twenty years ago," the woman said, "and our children spent many hours happily at play here."

I must admit, it was bright and airy and pleasant. A sloped ceiling, punctuated with halogen lights, captured our interest. We imagined our own children playing under this wondrous roof.

Our excitement was palpable. That back room really piqued our interest. Our hosts then brought us up to the third floor and showed us their bedroom, located in the front of the house. It was the largest of the three rooms on that floor, but still it had a sort of restrictive quality to it. Thick, upholstery-like curtains hung on the front windows, almost completely obliterating the radiant sunshine coming through. The spread covering the queen-size bed was heavily quilted and shiny, and reminded me of unwanted afternoons spent at my grandmother's house. I could almost smell the mothballs.

The other two rooms were nearly claustrophobic in nature¿bedrooms housing the remnant memories of their now-moved-away children. The walls were devoid of decoration, except for a Charles Atlas photo cellophane-taped to one wall. Although there were still beds in each room, no pictures or shelves or toy chests were visible. No posters or telephones or any specific reminders were present. It was impossible to tell if a male or female child had occupied either of these rooms. And we didn't ask.

The rooms felt cold and dank. We kept focusing on that airy playroom on the second floor and assumed we could turn even this stark landscape into a warm habitat.

Although the atmosphere upstairs was less than desirable, it was certainly not enough to discourage us. We were finished with our tour when the wife said, "I'm sorry about my husband's aunt and uncle . . . you'd think they'd know better at their age."

"How bad can they be?" I remarked, not quite ready for her response.

"How bad? I'll tell you how bad. They intimidate everyone who comes to see this house. Especially his uncle. He's more than a 'tough cookie'¿he's nasty and impossible, and I'm getting sick and tired of it. I don't want to live in New York anymore." I could see her husband flinch at her candidness. She continued, "We've got this beautiful house in Florida that we can't move into, and he doesn't give a shit about it. If you can persuade him to move, more power to you. Even the real- estate broker has stopped sending people to see this house. I don't care if this makes us vulnerable to a lower sale price, I want out."

Her husband was clearly not happy with her outburst, but he remained silent, seemingly trying to be tolerant of her obvious frustration.

After a brief, but very pregnant, silence, I exclaimed, "Well, can we meet the ogres downstairs?"

I thought I was being cute, but it wasn't received very well, and I couldn't help but notice my husband's disapproving look. After a moment or two, our hosts took us downstairs, said their goodbyes, and left us alone at the first floor entrance. I suddenly felt frightened. I was anxious about meeting this man and felt my heart palpitate as my husband knocked on the door. I nearly expected Lurch to answer.

My husband looked at me a little strangely and asked if there was anything wrong.

"I'm scared," I said. "Aren't you?

"Hell, no," he replied. "We can probably get this house for less than we thought."

If it weren't for his attitude, I would have gone home. I straightened my back and waited for the door to open.

We must have knocked three or four times, and I had almost convinced my husband to leave, when the door opened to reveal a short, elderly gentleman. At first glance he looked almost endearing with his yellowish white hair and bowed legs. He was very old, much older than we had expected, perhaps well into his nineties. He was caustic and rude, indicating to us that he was not at all pleased to see yet another prospective buyer.

"We're not leaving, you know," he said with a scowl. "This is our home and no one is ever going to force us out."

It became very clear to us that we were being perceived as the enemy. It was an unfamiliar and very uncomfortable feeling.

"We just want to look at your apartment," my husband said. "We're not at all sure about buying this house anyway."

The old man's expression remained resolute and angry, but he did let us in. He shut the door behind us and we found ourselves in an enclosed porch, one that had once been open. We could still see the original columns vaguely hidden by wood paneling. It was bordered by eight old, green-trimmed, peeling windows. On the floor were ancient tiles and, with a quick glance, I noticed that there was no source of heat in this area. I figured it could only be used in the warmer months.

Leading out of the porch was a beautiful set of French doors made of oak. They had long, narrow panels of beveled glass, reminiscent of late nineteenth-century architecture. They were absolutely gorgeous. We walked through these doors to a small narrow foyer, with the living room on the right. We were very disappointed.

This room was very small, perhaps ten by twelve feet, including the bay windows facing the enclosed porch. At an earlier time, these windows had obviously been on the outside wall of the house. There was only room for a full-size couch, perhaps a love seat, and a television. However, at the entrance to this living room, off the foyer, we noticed doors that were inserted into the walls. We had never seen this before, except in old movies. We were instantly charmed. The house must have been more than a hundred years old. Even though the old man was grumpy and impatient, we were still charmed. We noticed the doilies covering all of the furniture, and everything seemed to be monotone mahogany. It reeked of "old." We didn't care. We were very interested in this house.

Beyond the living room was the most glorious dining room we had ever seen. It had a tin ceiling and parquet floor, and there were bay windows on the side wall. It was, of course, the center of the house, even though the mahogany furniture was badly in need of repair. It had incredible potential. On the opposite side of the bay windows was what used to be a fireplace. The wall jutted out about three feet deep, five feet wide. My mind began racing with thoughts about reconstructing the original fireplace. I thought of warm family dinners held within the walls of this great room. The doilies were easy to dismiss in this most fetching arrangement. Even the old man's obvious contempt was easy to ignore, until he ushered us into the back rooms.

The experience of the dining room faded soon after we entered the kitchen. It was completely gray. Floors, walls, cabinets¿all gray, and in desperate shape. It was a small room with two entrances. The kitchen was on the other side of the dining room, behind a wall, with the fireplace part in the middle. One entrance was at the beginning of the dining room, the other at the far end. A person could literally go around in a circle, past the fireplace, and still end up in the kitchen. Two hip-high windows faced an alley, a small table was in the center and a few gray cabinets hung above a rusted sink. It was depressing, especially with its one fluorescent bulb flickering on and off.

From the doorway of the kitchen we could, unfortunately, see the bathroom. Actually, we could almost smell it. Any number of subway toilets in Manhattan could easily have put this one to shame. The ceiling paint was peeling, the walls were cracked, and a rusted bathtub on "feet" sat angrily in the center of the room. The toilet bowl and the sink appeared to be unusable.

Our hearts sank. This place needed a lot of work, and perhaps a lot of money. My husband and I looked at each other and realized that, maybe, this wasn't our dream house after all. But we weren't ready to give up yet.

As a sly smile crossed his face, I could tell the old man sensed our waning interest.

"C'mon, folks, let me show you the master bedroom," he said, as he nearly pushed us into a cramped back room.

"Master" bedroom indeed. The room was dark, approximately twelve feet by ten feet. The bed was neatly made and rather attractive drapes hung over its two windows. The ancient bedroom set residing here almost overflowed the dimensions of the room.

After a very brief stay here, he pointed us toward the other back bedroom. He said it had been added on about thirty years ago. It, too, was very small, smaller than the other bedroom. It could almost have passed for a large walk-in closet. There, in a twin bed, lay his wife. The room smelled of sickness. It smelled of medicine and ointments and sadness. His wife of I-don't-know-how-many years looked up at us. She didn't say a word. She was a sweet-faced woman with long white hair combed back into a braid. She had moist, puppy-dog eyes. When she looked at me, my heart just melted. I wondered what had happened in her life to make her appear so vulnerable, so sad.

Suddenly, we felt like intruders. The beauty of the dining room, the thrill of owning our own home, the prospect of living here, faded in the distance. Even if we could afford to fix...