The Intruders - Classic

Glynn Washington (0:01)

When you go to bed at night, you lock the door for a reason. But what if whomever is trying to get in doesn't need a key?

You're listening to Spooked. Stay tuned.

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I remember when it came to our house. I hear him say he can fix the septic system or something. My mother tells him that he should maybe come back with my father's home. From the hallway, I see him tall, wiry, red-faced, red-haired. He says, sure, he can come back later, of course. He just wants you to know, I never had no problems with coloreds living here. No matter what the neighbors say, I always thought colored women were the most beautiful women on the earth. And you know, you know, I'd be willing to cut a deal. Cut a deal to get some of this work done you need around here. Cut a deal to find colored women like yourself if you know what I mean. If you know what I mean.

I step out then, from the hallway. He draws back, surprise. I walk past both him and my mother. Into the kitchen, I open the silverware drawer. I pull out a knife. I will it to be sharper than the butter knife it is, but it is steel. And I will stab this redheaded man with it. I am only nine, but I will stab this man. Or I will break glass, or I will find fire. I know this, like I know the sky is blue. Like I know the taste of a summer peach. I know I will kill this person.

I had just been drinking a glass of milk, washing the flintstones, but I know with utter certainty that I will kill him or perish in the process. Almost as if it has already happened, I know it. I walk back into the living room, clutching the knife tight in my fist.

Or maybe he sees the cold rage in a nine-year-old boy's eyes. He places his cap back on his head, nods to my mother and backs out the front door.

From the window, I see him get into his truck and pull off. I throw the knife into the sink, walk past my mother, go back into my room, but the anger doesn't subside.

The rage doesn't leak away, instead it builds. My skin feels hot. My jaw clenched tight. I see myself ending the red-faced man in different ways with knives and guns and scarves and sticks and shards. And I wonder if, in another world, there waits another me, sitting in his room, not clenched, not furious, but relaxed, sitting in the same chair after washing the blood from a butter knife.

Now then, our first story takes us to New Mexico, which, because it was the land of many, many battles, is now a land of many, many spirits. But as one ghost in particular, she's not a ghost of a war battle. She's a ghost of a 19th century Jewish immigrant mother. And she's made one hell of a name for herself, Spooked.