Upon spotting an elderly gentleman and a law enforcement officer stationed at the foot of the hill, their eyes locked on the abandoned house above, this mild-mannered eighth grader bolted back inside. His voice rang out in an ominous warning to his younger sisters and their little friend before he doubled back, slipping toward the far side of the dwelling for his daring escape.
The trio of elementary school students peered out the attic dormer window, their eyes widening as they spotted me darting down the hill between houses—moving like a wild bobcat on the run, weaving through yards and evading the authorities.
“Look at Mark run!” Kathleen exclaimed, as she watched me dart through yards, effortlessly clearing unexpected hurdles. “Since my brother was born with cerebral palsy, I never imagined he could run—let alone without doing a face-plant into the dirt!”
“Now we know why your brother tried to warn us before tearing out of here like his tail was on fire,” Stephanie Wolfe concluded, stealing a glance at the flashing squad car lights from the corner of her eye.
I already know what you’re thinking.
Should I have been in that abandoned house? Absolutely not!
Should I have left my playmates high and dry while I got the heck out of dodge? Probably not!
Was I stupid enough to believe they could be as agile as me to escape the long arm of the law? Definitely not!
On the second Saturday in May, I was tucked away in my garage attic hideout, pecking at the keys of my brand-new electric typewriter like a determined chicken.
Just as I was about to roll another crisp sheet of typing paper into place, ready to dive back into another one of my short stories, three voices outside the open barn door of my private oasis shattered my focus. They were calling me—urging me to join them in an impromptu investigation of sorts.
Stephanie, our friend and neighbor from up the street, claimed there was an abandoned house just off the side road near her family’s corner lot. She insisted she’d seen the main level herself—belongings were strewn across the floor, as if tossed into the air and left where they landed.
The moment I heard the details, my curiosity was piqued. It didn’t take long for us to decide—this called for additional scrutiny.
For those of you who’ve seen the 1960 horror flick Psycho, this house—perched atop the hill—bore an eerie resemblance in its rundown state, sending spine-tingling chills down my back. The only thing missing? A murder of crows circling ominously overhead.
With cautious steps, we crept up a set of steep cement treads, followed by a creaky wooden staircase to the wide front porch. My siblings and I peered through the dirty window—and saw it just as the second grader had described.
As our eyes scanned the room, each of us fixated on items that piqued our individual curiosity. Against my better judgment, we lifted the window, wedged it open with a broken tree branch found on the porch and climbed inside.
Yes, I knew this was technically breaking and entering—especially considering one of my best friends’ dads was the chief of police. But at this point, all logical reasoning had gone straight out—or rather, in—the window.
As the only teenager among us, I would’ve been the one sent to juvenile detention if we were caught—a fact that never escaped me.
Despite the risk, we combed the entire premises—void of furniture—to ensure no one was present before embarking on our search for unexpected treasure.
Can you imagine if someone had been inside those four walls—I would’ve probably soiled my britches.
Among the many scattered items were clothes, books, papers, an assortment of jewelry and even an old guitar—its missing string a quiet testament to time.
With our newfound spoils—a couple of riveting spy novels, two handfuls of gaudy necklaces with matching earrings and that hopelessly out-of-tune guitar—we exited right through the front door.
Talk about having nerves of steel, or should I say, “pure stupidity!”
With our newly acquired treasures in hand, none of us dared take them home—our parents would surely ask questions. So, our little band of thieves decided to hide the plunder in my clubhouse.
Without a doubt, this was probably the single dumbest thing I ever did—second only to yanking a hat down over my face just before slamming into a tree while sledding down Dead Man’s Drop in Bentleyville, Pennsylvania.
After that first trip to the deserted house, they were hooked. Their so-called life of crime and corruption had begun, as these preacher’s kids and their playmate made daily visits to stash their growing booty in an inconspicuous hiding place.
However, our depraved thievery came to a grinding halt on the third day.
As I carried a load of goods through the back door of the dilapidated structure, I spotted a police officer and another gentleman pointing towards the house.
Dropping everything in my hands, I quickly darted back into the kitchen yelling out my sinister warning.
It was every man for himself.
I tore through neighbors’ yards, over flower beds, and under clotheslines—never stopping, never looking back until I reached the safe house—my own private slice of real estate above the two-car garage in our own backyard.
My parents were mortified when they glanced through the dining room window to see a police cruiser drive up to the church parsonage with my little sisters in the back seat.
Shortly after the stool pigeons ratted me out to the neighborhood crime fighter, their growing entourage—which now included my father—came out to my elevated fort.
Panic-stricken, I quickly pulled up the painter’s ladder through the trap door and refused to give myself up.
Luckily, the man who owned the house didn’t press any charges and even offered to let us each keep one item from his rental property, previously occupied by his free-spirited daughter.
Of course, the blond-haired minister wasn’t having any of it.
Upon lowering all of our carefully curated treasures to the proper authorities, I stayed put until my hunger pains got the better of me—then it was time to face the music.
You better believe I received a good old-fashioned whipping upon walking into that house, because Dad firmly believed in the Biblical saying, “Spare the rod and spoil the child.”
My boon companions—Robert “Robbie” G. Brough, Jr. and Robert “Magsy” Magnifico never did find out about my little crime spree until I spilled the beans at our thirty-fifth high school reunion after the statute of limitations had passed.
My mama didn’t raise no fool. But then again, maybe she did. After all, I did follow a trio of elementary students like a lemming into an abandoned house.