A few times a week, I have been making the hour-long drive out to my new favorite place. The beginning of the drive is rather traffic-heavy, but that doesn’t last very long. Once I get onto the backroads, I follow the winding asphalt through green tunnels of tree canopies and quaint little towns. There are a few derelict buildings still standing erect, like memorials to times-long-ago, lining the cow-filled pastures. Hawks soar high above the terrain, circling overhead, and I feel a sense of freedom being on the road, traveling beneath them. Everything is calm and serene; it is almost hard to believe that all of this lies such a short distance from the congestion of the city.

The house is quiet whenever I enter it. I always say, “Good morning” to the spirits; I have been told that is necessary or they will let us (the staff) know they are displeased. The house is welcoming; it doesn’t feel dark or oppressive. The high ceilings and windows make each room feel enormous. The furniture is period appropriate. Crystal chandeliers hang from gorgeous plaster medallions. The eyes of previous tenants observe silently from their perched portraits. We are the guests here.

I am training and learning about the house. It helps to be immersed in the echoes of its past. It is my new favorite haunt, and I feel incredibly lucky that I get to spend so much time there.