Liquid Window – Planes Drifter Origin

             Liquid Window – Planes Drifter Origin

This was the fifth year in a row I was dropped off at the country home of my Mother’s life-long friend Ms. Gosling.

Three Months.

The entire summer.

I never understood, nor did I really want to try, why my own mother would abandon me to this old house and this crazy woman for three months every year.

The first couple years seemed ok, but now that I had turned 15 years old I was just bursting to get out and do something, make my mark, or at least mark up something.

“I will see you in a few months John, have an exciting summer” my mother said while placing her hand on my cheek.

In my best wit and vernacular I addressed my mother …. “This sucks!”

I swore I felt her hand, still on my cheek, turn cold as her eyes sharpened.

“That’s enough” She replied.

With that, I watched her climb into her Volvo and drive down the long gravel driveway towards the rural country road that led to Ruth Gosling’s home.

The house was built in 1865, according to Ms. Gosling. It had faded and peeling white washed boards in a sort of old English style and shape. At least that’s what I think from what I’ve seen on tv.

Whatever the proper terminology I think it looks way too similar to the house from Amityville horror. Without the gates of Hell being under the stairs. I know, because I’ve checked. A few times actually.

 “Well John, it’s good to see you again.” Announced Ms. Gosling.

Now, to describe Ruth Gosling I must be careful not to be unkind. Or at least that’s what I’ve been told time and time again by my mother who likes to abandon her child for three months every year.

So. Ruth stands about 5’1” tall, and when hunched over leaning on her cane, closer to 4’9”.  I didn’t quite understand how my Mother could be “Life Long” friends with someone that looks to be at least twice her age on a good day, but what do I know, I’m the one stuck here and She’s the one that’s free.

“Hey Ruth.” I said.

Now let me explain this for a moment. She had made a huge deal about this. ‘Just call me Ruth’ She said this constantly. So… I finally just caved.

“Go ahead and take your things up to your room.”

I smiled politely, grabbed my duffel bag and laptop bag and stepped up on to the creaky stairs leading to the front porch of this 1865 home.

My room, or at least what She referenced as my room, was a twelve by twelve room with hardwood floors and the aroma of age and defeat so embedded in the walls I swear you’d have to burn the place down to finally rid yourself of the odor.

All things being what they are I would typically drop my bags, exit the house and plop down near the old barn a couple hundred yards away. I had built up kind of a clubhouse in and next to the small barn over the years and Ruth had always just left it alone, so it became my ‘Man Cave’ so to speak. Kid cave doesn’t sound as cool so Man Cave is what I am calling it. Just sayin’.

I was making my way down the worn staircase to the foyer when I saw Ruth standing near the front door wearing her coat and carrying her hand bag. I stopped and stared.

“John, I am so very sorry but I must run into town. Something has come up and they need me to come right away.”

I stood taking in the moment. It may not seem like anything to you but Ruth never, and I mean NEVER left the house when I was here. I have no idea about the rest of the year but I can tell you she never has left me here alone ever.

“Umm, ok.” I mumbled.

I did see a look of concern in her eyes. Honestly I didn’t know why this moment felt weird, but it did have a funny awkwardness to it.

“Will you be ok John?

I shrugged my shoulders, “Sure.”

I wasn’t much of a talker. Clearly.

Ruth paused, then opened the front door, paused again, then left, slowly closing the door behind her.

The rules were the rules in the old house of Ruth. The many acres of land and the many buildings on the property were mine to explore. This was what made the three long months barely tolerable. But, having said that, exploring in her house, the main house that is, was not ok. I could get into detail on the excuses she used but the bottom line is, the main house was where she lived so I couldn’t explore.

Funny thing was, she was always home so I never really thought about it. Until now of course.

Being 15 years old means a lot of things. The very first and foremost of course is that I truly knew more then any one else. I mean really. The second, of course, is that is anything is off limits, well then, that is the thing that you must do.

I walked down the stairs and peered through the narrow window next to the enormous oak door and watched Ruth climb into her old Ford Pick Up. I could see her hesitancy, her concern.

“Ok…” I said out loud as I watched her finally drive away.

  I first started in the den, then the kitchen. Both are places I visited many times before, but to be honest, I was feeling a little guilty at first. At first.

It didn’t take long for time, the promise of adventure, and the ridiculous curiosity that was pumping through my veins like heroin to over take the guilt and give me the complete permission to override any and all rules and head directly to the one place that called my name more than any other.

The Attic.

I had asked about the attic a few times in my repeated tenure at the Ruth estate over the years. She told me that there was nothing up there. She told me she lost the key. One time She even said that there was no real attic at all, that it was filled with insulation.

So, with the chance of mischievousness and the unbridled ‘know-it-all-ism’ flowing through my veins I went straight for the attic to answer the questions once and for all.

A part of me wanted to laugh as each and every wooden step creaked it’s objection to my assent towards the attic door. I couldn’t really tell you for certain of the house was built in the year Ruth had told me. 1865. But what I can tell you is, it was creepy as hell and each step was accompanied by about a dozen heat beats.

The door held a worn stain. It was peeling like the outside of the house but without any regal quality. It almost seemed lazy in a way. The brass door knob was covered in dirt and years of grime. It was very clear that not even Ruth herself had even touched this knob in a long time. A very long time.

I felt excited, scared and invigorated all at the same time as I reached for the knob, grasped it, and turned it slowly to the right.

The door wasn’t locked.

It opened with a creek straight from every horror movie you have ever seen.

There were stairs leading upward, so I kept going. Too late to back out now.

The room had dust, like snow, on the hand rail and the stairs leading up to the attic. The only light protruding into the room coming from an odd stained glass window set in the peek of the vaulted roof spilling its light across the aged wooden boards.

When I finally stood facing the window in the A Frame attic I stared hard at each of the unique glass panels.

The window was only about 4 foot from the attic floor so I walked over to where I was only one or two feet away. There was something about the colors, the details…. Something..

The window was circular with eight panes of glass. Each pane of glass had a symbol I had never seen before.

The first was a horse with battle armor rearing up.

The second was a knight standing alone holding a sword

The third a Wizard with his hands outstretched.

The forth was a constellation. I knew they were stars but I had no clue what they were.

The fifth pane showed a monk holding a book. I assumed the book was probably a bible but I couldn’t make it out for sure.

The sixth was a few symbols that could never be described in words. You’d have to see them for yourselves.

The seventh symbol was a wolf standing upright.

The eight and final symbol was a ship. At least that’s what it looked like to me.

I stood staring intently at all the panes. The colors were more than bright. More than realistic. It was about two minutes in when I saw each symbol begin to move.

Fear pulsed through me but it didn't not have control. I saw my own hand begin to reach out to the ‘Ship’ pane of glass. I wanted to scream and then realized I could not. I tried desperately to stop my hand but my arm, hand and fingers betrayed my commands and touched the glass.

I felt warmth pulse through my entire body as my fingers pushed through the glass. It was maybe a blink of an eye at most before I felt myself pulled forward. Ripped from the 1865 English farm house of Ruth Gosling and transported to….. well….

I guess this is where it begins and this it where it ends.

My name is John Miller and I am a Planes Drifter, and I have eight stories to tell.

Written by Kevin James Rhue