Where The Walls Speak
Chapter Three
We met by accident.
Or perhaps by fate.
Half a year ago, my father left – without a word – leaving my housewife mother a house and son she couldn't pay for. In order to provide, we 'downsized' to a foreclosed house nudging the outline of the town: a country home with no country of its own.
To my mother, it was a permanent reminder of her betrayal.
To me, it slowly became first my wonder, and then my nightmare.
It was in this house, weeks later, that I saw her. Passing by the foyer mirror as I walked to my room, I spied her reflection. Curled up in my father's old lounge chair. Her eyes were drawn and hung with sadness on her dirty face. Her hair – a dull brown like Mother's – lay bare against the upholstery. Her clothes: gray cloth shorts and even grayer tank-top, were large and pooled about her. And her attention, though sharp, focused primarily on the paint-sealed window beside her.
At first, I'd thought I'd discovered a ghost. For when I turned to confront such a childish intruder, empty space greeted me in her place. And upon inspection, thought she herself resigned in the chair, no physical presence was felt when probed.
It was remarkable. And I bounded around her, touching here and waving there, watching my mirror image do the same with the exception that, reflected, my hands past through her watery form.
As well, she ignored me and my endless investigation. Her face remained neutral, and her eyes never so much as twitched to my ways, but simply gazed out into the cloud-covered sky beyond the window.
Five minutes passed and my curiosity subsided. And with nothing more to achieve in my exploration – and slight hesitation – I left.
At dinner that night, I asked Mother about ghosts.
After a sudden chastising, curiosity too got the better of her and she questioned for my reasoning.
Fear held the truth, but I mustered a vague inquiry of their being as they are.
She snorted in reply before forking about mouthful into herself. "Well, whenever my boss comes to me, he always wants something done; why should a ghost be any different?"
I pondered that as we ate, recalling her as I had discovered her. Seated in Father's chair. The tilt of her head and how her face had been just lightly touched by the peeking sun. Through the clouds.
Through the...
Then it occurred to me, a hint if a thought: the window.
I snuck off to the foyer that night, risking my hide to see, if true, my ghost was waiting for me. With bated breath, I crept first to the chair itself before turning to face its opposite in the mirror beyond. And the dull-faced girl that still sat within its comfortable arms. I eyed her quietly before my attention followed too to the moon-streaked panes that she watched paralyzed.
No seam could be seen under the layers of paint and prime that coated the surrounding wood. But none-the-less, I gave a light-heart tug to the lips that embedded into its front. The panels rattled in their sockets; however the window itself held fast against the assault. Another tug and the same result. Now fearing redemption from Mother for the noise, I stepped back. A sigh of defeat blew from my lungs as I turned to retreat. Something caught my eye as I did; a sight that gave my spine a chill and my pulse a jump: Bright, pale eyes piercing out from that old reflected lounge chair. Piercing irises that reached out and held me for a second.
I blinked; and I would have claimed my imagination for such a twist of her glance at all, except now while I watched her, I saw her eyes were no longer as empty as they had that evening.
Or perhaps by fate.
Half a year ago, my father left – without a word – leaving my housewife mother a house and son she couldn't pay for. In order to provide, we 'downsized' to a foreclosed house nudging the outline of the town: a country home with no country of its own.
To my mother, it was a permanent reminder of her betrayal.
To me, it slowly became first my wonder, and then my nightmare.
It was in this house, weeks later, that I saw her. Passing by the foyer mirror as I walked to my room, I spied her reflection. Curled up in my father's old lounge chair. Her eyes were drawn and hung with sadness on her dirty face. Her hair – a dull brown like Mother's – lay bare against the upholstery. Her clothes: gray cloth shorts and even grayer tank-top, were large and pooled about her. And her attention, though sharp, focused primarily on the paint-sealed window beside her.
At first, I'd thought I'd discovered a ghost. For when I turned to confront such a childish intruder, empty space greeted me in her place. And upon inspection, thought she herself resigned in the chair, no physical presence was felt when probed.
It was remarkable. And I bounded around her, touching here and waving there, watching my mirror image do the same with the exception that, reflected, my hands past through her watery form.
As well, she ignored me and my endless investigation. Her face remained neutral, and her eyes never so much as twitched to my ways, but simply gazed out into the cloud-covered sky beyond the window.
Five minutes passed and my curiosity subsided. And with nothing more to achieve in my exploration – and slight hesitation – I left.
At dinner that night, I asked Mother about ghosts.
After a sudden chastising, curiosity too got the better of her and she questioned for my reasoning.
Fear held the truth, but I mustered a vague inquiry of their being as they are.
She snorted in reply before forking about mouthful into herself. "Well, whenever my boss comes to me, he always wants something done; why should a ghost be any different?"
I pondered that as we ate, recalling her as I had discovered her. Seated in Father's chair. The tilt of her head and how her face had been just lightly touched by the peeking sun. Through the clouds.
Through the...
Then it occurred to me, a hint if a thought: the window.
I snuck off to the foyer that night, risking my hide to see, if true, my ghost was waiting for me. With bated breath, I crept first to the chair itself before turning to face its opposite in the mirror beyond. And the dull-faced girl that still sat within its comfortable arms. I eyed her quietly before my attention followed too to the moon-streaked panes that she watched paralyzed.
No seam could be seen under the layers of paint and prime that coated the surrounding wood. But none-the-less, I gave a light-heart tug to the lips that embedded into its front. The panels rattled in their sockets; however the window itself held fast against the assault. Another tug and the same result. Now fearing redemption from Mother for the noise, I stepped back. A sigh of defeat blew from my lungs as I turned to retreat. Something caught my eye as I did; a sight that gave my spine a chill and my pulse a jump: Bright, pale eyes piercing out from that old reflected lounge chair. Piercing irises that reached out and held me for a second.
I blinked; and I would have claimed my imagination for such a twist of her glance at all, except now while I watched her, I saw her eyes were no longer as empty as they had that evening.