Autumn's Wind

There had been reports of the haunting happenings in the Corp’s home for many years. Neighborhood whispers and ramblings about the fear and terror that lived just beyond the oak door. But to me, it’s home. Faded and chipped olive color paint enhanced the walls throughout most of the house. And the floors creaked to an eerie tune, making the tiny mouse skit and scurry with every beat. I smiled as my guests moved about my home with engrossed interest and genuine curiosity about all my treasures and trinkets I’d collected over the years. A pocket watch from the 50s sat on a table from the 17^th century next to a bright pink glitter covered scrunchie from the 80s. They all held a special place in my heart and I breathed in deep the damp, familiar air.

     My guests spoke low to each other and although I strained to listen, I heard nothing of their conversation as they moved about the home. Their flashlights lit the darkened bedroom as they strolled in to admire my ancient wooden bed with its holy and well-worn lace blanket. The ivory cloth had yellowed over the years, but it still smelled slightly of my lovely Amelia, so I snuggled peacefully every morning until sundown came again. I’d once had an oriental rug in a pattern of ebony and bone, but the millions of steps over it’s lush threads had worn them to strings. Reducing it’s former beauty to nothing but strings and sadness. The stone fireplace once roared to life every single night while Amelia and I made our way to slumber, but now it sits barren and cold because lighting it has become impossible for me.

               My infant daughter let out a tiny sob, and my guests jumped at the sudden unexpected noise. I rushed to the nursery to lift her from the cradle and soothe her with a gentle sway and pat as I continued to follow my guests throughout our aging mansion. They continued to tell the history of this stone fortress that I’d used my family’s old money to build for my Amelia. This infant I currently snuggled, who we’d named Silence, had been Amelia and I’s third daughter in the line of ten that Amelia had born me. Ten daughters and no sons.

Most men would have been annoyed or disappointed to have no one to carry on his name or run his merit of businesses, but I’d been honored that I’d been chosen to father so many beautiful and kind daughters. The ones who’d lived past childhood had reduced my ten daughters to only five and of those five, three married prominent men about town and bore me many grandchildren that became the apple of my eye. One had been a schoolmarm and moved in with another husbandless friend... they lived together for over forty years and seemed to be happy roommates.

 My littlest one, Grace, had married a solider who’d gone off to fight for the side of right in the great American revolt and never returned to see his one and only son born into this world. Grace, a widow and new mother at seventeen, moved home with Amelia and me until many years had gone by and Les Winchester came around asking for her hand. They married under the apple tree in the last hot August that I remembered and gave me more grandchildren, filling my Amelia’s life with love.

My guests jumped when my middle child Rebecca rolled her favorite yellow ball across the sagging wooden floor in the ballroom. She laughed and her perfect curls bounced with the motion as she rolled her all again and my guests yipped and jogged out of the room at a steady pace towards the heart of my family home. I quickened my steps to keep up and passed my elderly maid, Gwen, as she delicately dusted the same book repeatedly and absently. I’d often try to redirect Gwen or order her about, but she never seemed to pay me an ounce of mind.

               The kitchen door gave a gentle squeak as the guests rushed through them and into the grandest kitchen this side of the Mississippi. I’d had the custom made in white oak. It had cost me a pretty penny, but the look on my Amelia’s face when they’d shone bright and perfect in the dawn light had been priceless. The dark wood floors matched the rest of the house, but these were scarred from years of use. A dent where Amelia’s favorite chef had dropped a copper pot fresh from the fire. A deep gouge from the consistent and constant scrape of our kitchen chair where my adorable Grace sat every day for thirty years. The knot in the wood where Amelia had caught the toe of her favorite shoe and toppled into my arms. I’d been able to save Amelia, but Rebecca’s birthday cake was lost to history. We’d laughed. We’d cried. We’d lived, and we’d died in this kitchen. It was my favorite part of the house because I could still smell Amelia’s perfume and her favorite baking bread.

               “Is anyone here with us?” One of my guests asked.

               “I’m am.” I replied.

               “Why are you here still?” The other guest spoke up.

               “This is my home.” Confused by the question, I gave them pro a dismissive look and walked with Silence towards the window. I whimpered to myself when I saw my Amelia sitting in her swing amongst the gravestones in the family plot. We were soul mates, Amelia and I. It seemed unusually cruel that I only got to gaze upon her but never touch or speak a word.

               “Is there anything you’d like to say? Speak now and we can hear you.” A voice sounded behind me.

               Silence cried out, and Amelia’s eyes shot to our home. I placed my hand on the freezing glass. “Amelia...” I sighed and a single tear escaped my eye before I turned away from the window and made my way out of the kitchen to see my guests to the door. I closed our oak door with a solid bang, making my guests yelp and run towards their legless horse. Rebecca pulled on my jacket tails and I smiled down at her. “Let’s go play, darling girl. One day we will find our way to mama.”

               Outside, the autumn wind howled, and it’s said the heartbroken sobs of a mother could be heard dancing through the wind just under the rustle of the leaves.