The manhole in our home in Eaton Parade Laverton had a mind of its own. Every morning we awoke, the manhole was slightly ajar. Maybe only an inch or two, but wide enough for everyone to see.
At what first appeared to be Dad performing one of his practical jokes on the family, soon turned into a mind boggling conundrum. Dad would get on the chair, put the manhole back to where it belonged and the same thing would happen the next day.
I know Dad didn’t want Chantelle or me to know what he kept at his fingertips every night. He had an old hockey stick from his junior days, curved blade sawn off and a three-pronged garden tool masked tightly to the end of it. You might think I’m joking, but this was deadly serious. Dad was convinced someone or something was roaming the corridors of this house at night and he was prepared to protect his family.
My sister and I shared the bedroom at the back of the house near the bathroom. We use to go to bed reasonably early, quietly humming our choir songs to remember the tune and scale. Some nights we would lay awake extra late just to chat or sing. With the TV going in the lounge room, we were far enough away from our parents to have a conversation without them hearing. We often chatted to the point that we would just snooze away mid conversation in the depths of the night.
Once June morning we both awoke dead frightened to a flickering light coming from the bathroom. The light was flicking on and off and you could hear the clicking of the switch. Normally the bathroom light would stay on with our door open because we both hated the dark of night. The fact the light was off then on then off again was concerning.
Chantelle jumped out of her bed and into mine. She was shivering and shaking, completely scared out of her wits. I felt no better. I was wide-eyed and struggling to breathe. We were mumbling to each other about going to see what it was. I’m sure we both knew internally that it wasn’t mum or dad playing a joke. This house was not a place where ghost jokes were funny.
Together we snuck out of bed and crawled along the floor to the doorway of our bedroom. It was probably only about four or five metres to the doorway, but it felt a lot further. The light was still flicking and we could hear the constant flicking of the switch. In perfect synchronisation, we poked our heads out of the doorway. The bathroom door was wide open and we could now see with our own eyes the light going on and off. No-one was in the bathroom and no-one stood in the entrance. Who or what the hell was playing with the light?
We were frightened beyond belief. There was no way we were going any closer than we already were. Chantelle was crying silently while I could feel the waterworks build up myself. We looked each other in the eyes and I shook my head. Before you knew it, we had turned around and made our way back to my bed.
Suddenly a door opened and Chantelle screamed. I pulled the doona over my face to hide. I couldn't watch.
Footsteps stormed down the hallway and toward the bathroom. The light stopped flicking and stayed in the off position. A few seconds later, the light was turned back on and a figure appeared at our doorway. It was Dad. The clicking must have woken him up too. I know he was trying to hide it, but I could see the hockey stick with three prongs hidden behind his right leg. There was no accusation here. He knew it wasn’t us playing with the light. He simply asked if we were okay and then told us to try and get some sleep. You could see the fear in his bright white eyes. This was the sort of stuff that made grown men tremble at the knees.
The next morning, Chantelle and I were up pretty early for school. Once again the manhole was slightly ajar. While making breakfast, we could hear Mum and Dad talking in the bedroom. Beau was awake and crying in the cot so it was hard to make out what they were saying.
Dad came out of the room and went straight to the shed. He came back with one of those silicon glue guns and a clamp. He got up on his chair, pulled the manhole right open and lined the entire inside with this sticky silicon glue. He then replaced the cover, clamped it tight to ensure it would stick and then went back to bed. He didn’t say a word to either of us. He just went about his business of sealing the manhole and walking back to bed.
That same night Mum and Dad told us that they were looking for a new house. With Dad working on the trains and trams we were in a position to put a deposit on a place and take on a mortgage. They both mentioned that Melton was an option and that the schools up that way were pretty good. We couldn’t argue – a town was a town as far as we were concerned.
Months passed and the manhole never opened. The silicon had certainly kept it down firm. The bathroom light never played up again and no strange events happened in the house.
When the mortgage was approved for the new house in Melton, we began the packing process. Just one more month living in Laverton and we were off to Melton for a new life.
School wound up in November for the both of us that year. With moving plans for the 3rd December 1993, both Chantelle and I had agreed with Mum and Dad that an extra few weeks off from school wouldn’t hurt us. After all, we were both top of the class and weren’t going to learn anything new in a hurry.
Our final night in Laverton will never be forgotten – not by anyone who slept at 5 Eaton Parade on 2nd December 1993. At five minutes to 6am the whole house was woken to a massive bang and crash coming from the lounge room. Dad, Mum, Chantelle and I all reached the lounge room doorway at pretty much the same time. After a deep breath or two, Dad opened the door and the entire family struck instant fear.
One peek at the floor and one further glance at the roof was enough for us to throw the final couple of boxes and blankets in the car, turn the key in the ignition and never return.
There was a small puff of dust in the air and a smell of mothballs and dirt. The manhole sat in the centre of the floor, unhinged, unstuck and completely detached from its home in the lounge room roof. And that’s where we left it, on the floor.
Not more than five minutes after the crash and bang were we on our way to Melton. Hopefully the demons we encountered in Laverton wouldn’t follow us to our new home. The stomach of the world’s toughest man would have turned in that Laverton house. It certainly wasn’t for the faint-hearted. A living nightmare of a source that had a bone to pick with someone or something, taking out its bad temper on our young family. Prayers and religion weren’t enough to clear the air. Moving house seemed the only feasible option.
I’ll never look at a manhole the same way ever again.
Be sure to login next week for the 8th Chapter of "Nothing to Prove - The Autobiography of Lee James Schraner"
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