I used to do HVAC work. About twenty years ago, I had to fix something in an attic, and the only entrance to that attic was through a large, messy room that obviously belonged to a teenage boy. At first, it seemed normal. Eventually, though, I realized everything in that boy’s room was kinda outdated. The CDs and magazines lying around had all come out a few years before, for example.
After finishing the job, I asked my boss about it. He told me that the kid had died a few years before from autoerotic asphyxiation (he accidentally strangled himself to death while jerking off), and his mother had found his body. She insisted that his room remain just as it was. She maintained it as some kind of shrine, unmade bed, jeans on the floor and all.
I couldn’t even imagine the emotional toll that must have taken on the family. Every. Single. Day. She refused to let them heal and move on. I only met the mother briefly, before I knew the whole story. I never met the husband or sister. I’m glad. Even if I was bribed to go back in that house, you couldn’t pay me enough to go upstairs. That kid’s room was, without exaggeration, the creepiest thing I’ve ever seen.
Creepy in the sense that keeping the room intact was a monument to pain, and handling that pain in an incredibly unhealthy way. It’s just too sad.
If they just moved on and cleaned the room out, it would be fine. I’m not talking about ghosts or any crap like that.
You know, I don’t really see the harm. How is this not just a scaled up version of keeping pictures?
Yeah. So sad that I didn’t like writing about it, but HAD to get it right, ya know?
The daughter’s room was way at the end of the hallway, so she had to walk past it every day. She was the younger of the two, but had become older than her brother was when he died. In fact, she was ready for college. I hope she got out of there and lived on campus.
