Eternal Reverie

It's as if ghosts occupy the property. There's an ephemeral silence that has surrounded it for many years. The iron gates and faded brick walls are overgrown with ivy left long unattended. You could hide in the front yard's grass, a willow weeps in the silence. The house creaks with the howling winds of winter moving in. Whatever life this place may have had has been gone for as long as anyone can remember. No one comes; no one goes. There are no cars in the garage. There are cobwebs in the windows. Sometimes, late at night, yellow light can be seen spilling from the attic window. Villagers tell tales of ghosts and ghouls, sprites, and gnomes. No one knows what that light in the attic is, and no one has been brave enough to approach the long-abandoned home. Occasionally, children like to creep up to the gate and peer through at the eerily still yard on Halloween night. They wonder at the rotting wooden tree swing; they whisper about the rusted bike; they dare double dare each other to pluck a wildflower from around the house's doorstep. Even if one of them had the nerve to climb the fence, the spiked top made an attempt far too arduous. Instead, they turn and run, laughing and teasing. They never see the front door creep open, the woman watching them from the shadows.

           On these nights, she stands on the front porch, gazing out into the moonlight. There is a waxing moon on this night, encroaching on the sky. The Mourning Moon is just around the corner. Her long, white-blonde hair blows in a gentle October breeze. Rotting wood creaks beneath her feet as she moves gracefully onto the overgrown walk barefoot on the cracked pavement. There is a stirring around her. An owl's hoot echoes through the night. She makes her way towards the gate, where a small group of such children has just departed. Longingly, she curls her fingers around the bars. She wishes to give them candy and to ask questions about their costumes. To feel like she's a part of the world again. The children's silhouettes are fading in the distance. It's been so long since she's spoken, she's not sure she'd even recognize her voice.

           She never attempts to greet the children during their annual visit. She doesn't wish to frighten them. So far as anyone knows, her family left here fifty years ago, when she was a young girl. In the village, folks whisper about the dilapidated property. They say it's haunted. It is, she thinks. The ghosts of a former life haunt the property. On the weathered hardwood floors, she still sees her mother, bruised and bleeding. In the grand archway that leads to the family room, her father still stands. Bottle in hand, distant eyes. Dull skin. At the top of the stairway, she sees her little sister as she has never stopped seeing her – timid, terrified, tattered dress, emaciated, black and blue. Once, it was a house of horrors. Now, it's just someplace she returns to, every year in September, weathering the winter in the attic, leaving with the spring.

           She's not sure why she comes back here this time of year, once autumn is in full swing. During the winter months, she watches the snowfall through the attic's tiny window. The window is in front of an old desk. The desk was her father's. She sits at an old-fashioned typewriter and tries to give the ghosts a voice. She's determined to give her time on this earth meaning. She needs the closure of believing it happened for a reason. If it didn't, she could just lay down and die. There's still so much to do, so much to see. She isn't ready to say goodbye. Despite her desperate desire to find happiness, to leave the past where it belongs, she finds herself returning here again and again. What she's looking for, she isn't sure. She's not sure why she believes this house is where she'll find it, locked in the attic where her father drank himself to death in between fits of rages that tore her family to the bone. She's confident that if she can find the purpose to her pain, that she can finally let go. She can sell the house. She can disappear.

           She thinks she'll go to the beach. Her mother always wanted to take them to the beach, to live there and leave the desperate house behind. Why they didn't leave, she'll never know. She'll leave. She'll go to the beach, sit on a pier, write in coffee shops about predestined love and grand adventures, stories that always have a happy ending. She'll swim in the ocean, salt decorating her skin. She'll make love to a young, blond surfer boy. She'll live again, breathe again.

           Someday, she will. She promises herself. Right now, she has a story in her bones, and she must get rid of it. She must put it away.

           She makes her way back up the cracked walk, uneven and sharp against her feet, up the wooden steps. She slips inside the house, closing and locking the door behind her. It's dusty and musty, the furniture covered, lifeless. She begins the ascent to the attic, where she will remain until the snow has come and gone and winter kisses spring. Her hand glides over the railing, trailing slightly behind her as she steps onto the second-floor landing and moves to the next set of stairs that stop at the attic door. When she reaches the door, she doesn't open it. She just languidly passes through.

           There are candles dispersed about the room, so she takes a matchbox from the desk drawer and strikes a match, lighting each candle in turn. When she's finished, she lowers herself into the desk chair and places her hands on the typewriter's keys. She wishes she could walk to the gate. She wishes she could run and laugh with those children to share in their joy. She'd invite them in for tea. They'd play in the garden. She begins to type, as she's done every year for the last fifty years. Maybe this year, she'll finish the story. She'll finally be able to rest, to return to dust, to leave this world for the next. She thinks of the beach – she doesn't know she's a ghost. All she knows is that she's tired. Her hands stop moving, and she looks out the window. The first snowflake falls. Winter's come early this year.