this town doesn’t grow on you; it grows in you

I.        

He hurried up the street, trying to catch up to the elderly lady. “Ma’am? Excuse me, but could I trouble you for directions?” 

She stopped walking, turning to face him. “Where to?” 

He took one breath of air, flattening his vest, before answering: “Rochair Manor.” 

She turned on her heel, wagging a finger at him. “What business have you got there?”

He straightened. “It was my father’s property, ma’am. I’m here to sell it.” 

“Up the hill there.” She pointed to a thin, cobbled path winding between the shops on the main road. Before he could thank her, she addressed him firmly. “Now, don’t you go snooping around here for long. This town isn’t home for fellows like you.” 

His eyes widened, eyebrows hitting his hairline. She looked him over appraisingly, before adding an eerie warning: “This town doesn’t grow on you son, it grows in you. Don’t let it fester.” 

II.        

Rochair Manor sat perched right behind the hill; chimney peaking over the grass was the first sign of any life for miles. As he turned the key in the lock, relieved father hadn’t thought to change the locks once more before his death, the sun had already melted into the horizon and the purple had edged into the sky. 

The mist had gathered on the moors, pooling across the grass, and he could see nothing but the occasional thistle bush or treetop. 

The house was just how he had left it twenty years ago, only with a thin layer of dust settling on the furniture. His summons had been delayed in the mail; the house had sat curiously empty for weeks. 

Turning the lock firmly behind him, he started making his way up the stairs. 

The wood had started to rot, and he didn’t hear creaks as much as feel his feet sinking through each stair. 

A white linen sheet had been pulled cleanly over the mattress, which was no doubt infested with some bug or other. The sheet of dust was absent, and the window blown wide open, the wind howling its displeasure. 

Placing his trunk on the ottoman, he crawled under the sheets. The day of traveling had him delusional, and he wasted no time changing his clothes. 

The last thing he heard before drifting off, likely some machination of his mind, was a slow, rhythmic rocking. 

III.       

The buyers were scheduled to collect their keys for Sunday, and while the house may remain empty for months, after that it was no longer his problem.

He piled all the house keys his father had collected over the years on the dinner table. He removed most of the locks his father had placed on doors and windows, although some he physically could not move. He piled those keys on the dinner table too. He collected the key to every desk and every wardrobe and added those keys to the pile. 

The afternoon was spent cleaning—removing furniture that was too rotten to be considered an addition to the new buyers and dusting what remained. He knew not how his father had lived in these conditions. 

The old woman’s warning only resurfaced when his head hit the pillow a second night when the rocking returned. 

He could hear it clearly now—it came from above him, from the attic. 

He resolved to have a look tomorrow and promptly drifted off. 

IV.       

The attic seemed barren in the daylight, absent all the shadows that had scared him as a boy. Nonetheless, there sat the rocking chair. In the center of the room; empty.

V.       

That night, he watched the clock, the temptation of his bed forgotten. 

When the largest hand hit the nine, he could make it out once more. 

He sneaked up the stairs, iron bar in his hands (he was his father’s son after all), and arrived at the top of the stairs. 

In the chair that hand been empty only hours ago, sat a thin, translucent silhouette. 

A little girl. 

“Hello,” her wispy voice said. “Have you come back for me?”

He moved out of the shadows, and her face fell for a moment. She spoke once more, “I don’t know you.” 

“I live here now.” 

“You’re Martin’s son, aren’t you?” She giggled, a high, echoing laugh. “What a pity, my eyes would’ve suited you better.” 

His voice came out rougher than intended. “What?” 

 “You would’ve been much more handsome.”

He moved further out of the shadows. “Excuse me, but who are you?” 

“I might gift them to you anyway.” She surveyed his frame, now illuminated by the light. “He would’ve liked that,” she added to herself. 

Growing desperate, he added a frustrated: “Who?” 

“Goodnight, pretty boy.” She disappeared. 

If he hadn’t done so already, he resolved to leave this town at the earliest instant. 

VI.       

The next night, the rocking returned and whatever foolish, naïve hope he’d had that last night had been the end of it disappeared with it. 

He moved up the stairs once more, drawn in by a strange, morbid curiosity. If anything went wrong, he reasoned, she was just a little girl. She couldn’t hurt him. 

Her glassy eyes surveyed him upon his entry, “I hadn’t expected you so early.” She spoke as if she had invited him over for tea as if she wasn’t haunting his attic. 

“Why are you here?” He spoke in a clear-cut town, hoping it would have an influence. 

Her wispy lip curled up into a smirk, “Aren’t you pleased to see me?” 

“What are you doing here?” He moved closer. “What even are you?” 

“You may be a pretty boy, but it seems there’s nothing up here.” She tapped her temple and burst into giggles. “I’m a ghost, obviously.” 

He gave no acknowledgment of her insult. “And why are you in my house then?” 

She stopped laughing and her glassy eyes bored into his. “You know, Martin liked me a lot more than you do.” 

He held her gaze. “And how do you know my dad? Why are you ‘haunting’ his house?” 

“You ask too many questions.” 

“You don’t answer enough.” 

They held a battle of wills, holding fierce eye contact, waiting for the other to back down. 

She blinked first. “Martin was my fiancée.” 

As she caught his eyes again, she giggled. “Really, my eyes would’ve suited you so much better. I really must gift them to you someday.” 

Privately, he thought her glassy eyes deserved no place near his body. He returned to his train of questioning, settling himself on the floor. “You were married to my father.” 

“Arranged to be married. Our parents were neighbors and thought it prudent. Martin didn’t agree.” She tilted her white head, adding in a dazed tone, “Although I’m sure he regrets it now.” 

“How—” 

“Hush, pretty boy.” She placed her hands on her hips, her baby lips in a pout. “How can I tell a story if you keep interrupting me?” 

He gave her a regretful smile, and she continued. 

“He was very much in love with a girl from the village, some Sylvia—” 

“That’s my mother’s—” 

A crease appeared between her eyebrows as she whispered, “Hush!” She collected herself, dusting off her translucent dress, and continued. “And so, he refused to marry me.

“His parents would never have agreed, and you know how much he wanted their money.” She paused, and he nodded. “So, he decided there was nothing to it but to get rid of me. One night, he dragged me into the moors and made sure that’s where I stayed.” 

His eyes were now wide as saucers. His old, senile father—

She gave another laugh, full of merriment. “Luckily for me, I got the chance to haunt him and I’ve stayed by him all these years.” She looked him directly in the eye. “Don’t you think he regrets it now?” 

He could not answer. He got up, dusted himself off, and took off down the stairs, never meeting those glassy eyes once. 

VII.      

The rocking didn’t stop that night. Nor the next. 

VIII.     

By the end of the week, he had never been more overjoyed to hand off his father’s hoard of keys and take the next train inland. 

He had not slept for a week. 

IX.       

Only years later would he dare to think back to the encounter again. Of his week spent with the little girl, dressed in a white veil, halfway between our world and theirs. 

It was the day his own daughter stared up at him with those same glassy eyes. 

She’d gifted them to him after all.