The Historic Bog House (excerpt) Henry Hamilton

The Historic Bog House (excerpt)

Henry Hamilton

We were offered the option of several locations for our final vacation. It so happens that she and I were the only ones to pick the Historic Bog House. We arrived separately to the car place. An invalid waited there to ferry us through the Historic Bog. Our suitcases were taken from us and placed in the trunk. She sat up front--I sat behind. We did not chat very readily. It was an awkward bumpy ride. The road must have been impossible to maintain, as we were jostled endlessly on our way in. Around us, the bog was muggy and viciously humid. The various noises known to dwell within bogs were oddly silent and the noon sun ushered in more heat, whether the window was open or not. The ugliness of the bright sky only made the trip more unpleasant. The inside of the car smelled like my mother, and I was glad to leave it. When we got out of the vehicle, I discovered that we had not been driving on a road at all. Instead, a muddy track led back behind the wheels of the car through the bog.

She went inside immediately and I was left to tip our driver. He rolled away into the bog again, sloshing all the liquid beneath him. I picked up my own suitcases and turned around to survey the Historic Bog House. It’s an old house, obviously. The Historic Bog House is built on an almost miraculous dot of dry ground to the southwest of the center of the Historic Bog. It appears to have been fashioned from the waterlogged wood of the nearby trees, although the outward planks are unrecognizable from constant sun-bleaching and soaking in the wet air. There is a wraparound porch with a cover, though I don’t think most of it would support weight anymore. A good degree of the structure is conceivably rotten. Fungus likely grows within many of the wooden pieces of that house. It was three stories in total, and it had an attic too.

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