“I just asked you,” I say, but that doesn’t concern her. She has gotten in her swing and can’t be stopped.
“Everyone does as they wish here, as if this house is deserted. There’s no respect for privacy, no basic manners. Wild, uncultured barbarians. Primitive people doing whatever they like in my house. I’ve had enough of it. I’m sick of being the one who keeps things orderly here.
“Anyway, no one cares what I say or think. Do whatever you want. Anyway, the situation here has gotten hopelessly out of control.”
I suppose that this is Helen’s elegant and well-mannered way of inviting me in. In the room, there is a large wall closet with carved wooden doors and elaborate copper handles. Facing the closet is a huge mirror starting from the floor and almost reaching the ceiling. Its ornate silver frame is now completely tarnished and blackened. I stand in front of it and I can only make out a blurred and gloomy silhouette. For a second, I think that this is what my spirit looks like, that mirrors, like living people, cannot really see me. But that’s not so. The reason for my nebulous reflection is the thick layer of dirt and dust that almost completely seals the mirror.
I turn my back on the mirror. Helen is still regarding me with the same posture of disdain with her folded arms and raised chin. I decide to use the direct approach.
“What is Milka’s story?”
Helen seems surprised by the question, and for a second forgets her role as the angry Madame.
“Milka is…” She looks around as if searching for a hint in the corners of the room that will provide her with an answer, and then regains her composure and returns to her overbearing tone.
“She is a primitive, superstitious woman,” but her insistence sounds a little uncertain.
“What superstitions, for example?”
“Like ghosts, the hollow of the slingshot, and reincarnation.” Helen rolled her eyes with open disdain and waved her arms in the air dismissively as she recounted Milka’s superstitions. I admit that until a week ago, I would define them like that, but the events of the last days have certainly changed my perception.
“But,” I say cautiously, hoping not to break off the conversation that is just beginning, “We are spirits. Doesn’t that mean there is some truth to those superstitions?”
“Yes, now we can say that. But Milka believed in all those things even before she knew of them with certainty.” Helen stares at me as if I am a little girl, and, perhaps, to emphasize that, she rises ten centimeters into the air. “And that says nothing about all the other things she talks about.”
“What other things does she talk about?” I ask, but Helen is not interested in continuing this conversation.
“She talks nonsense,” she cries out in anger and the volume of her voice begins to rise, “and if you’re interested in hearing the mutterings of a witch who communicates with the dead, you’re welcome to approach her yourself.” She almost spits out the words ‘communicates with the dead,’ but through her ridicule, it is possible to notice something more. Helen fears Milka.
“What do you mean by communicates with the dead? Is she a medium, who has seances and things like that?” Helen elevates herself another few centimeters and clenches her fists. This isn’t a good sign.
“I am telling you. If you find that rubbish interesting, speak to her yourself. Not that I think she will talk to you.”
“Why won’t she talk to me?” I ask, but Helen turns her back on me and floats out of the room, flashing her aristocratic flair.
I raise my head and look at the spider webs hanging from the ceiling. If anyone can give me answers, a medium would indeed be the right person. Well, I have nothing to lose. I take a deep breath (only symbolic and metaphorical, of course) and rise up to the attic, where they say Milka stays most of the time.
There is so much dust, feathers and droppings of pigeons and other creatures that I can only assume are mice. They are illuminated by the sun’s rays that penetrate where roof tiles are missing, but besides the dirt, the attic is empty. There is something depressing about it. More than the miserable state of the house, or the dust, decay and neglect, it is the sign of animals entering and leaving the house, and those rays of sunlight, the proof that life continues outside that suddenly makes me feel so dead, so small, and so helpless. A million questions race around in my head and I feel I know nothing but one thing for certain, and it is that I don’t want to remain in this house, that I simply don’t belong here. If there is anyone, who can give me the answers, it’s the woman I have come looking for and isn’t there.
I call out Milka’s name a few times, but there is no response. Perhaps, like Oved, she goes out occasionally.
I leave the attic, coming to terms with the fact that I will have to try again some other time.
***
Indeed, Milka doesn’t wander around the house much, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t know what’s going on. One of the advantages of her private location in the house, is that she can easily overhear the conversations being held in rooms on the second floor. The only separation between the five rooms and the low and narrow attic is a thin plank ceiling. As regards to what takes place on the bottom floor, she gets regular updates from Oved.
The young girl’s questions bother her. Though, she isn’t the first to ask them. It’s only natural to wonder where all the other spirits are located, but, as opposed to the others, who know the answer in their heart of hearts, and therefore prefer not to discover them, Noga is seeking answers. This is why Milka takes the trouble to flee from the attic as soon as she understands that Noga is looking for her. She is accustomed to making quick get-aways. Her controversial work has often led her to flee and hide, sometimes to protect her life. She is always saved because although so many people dislike and fear her, they often need her services. Even the King of Israel, who sought to persecute all the sorcerers and soothsayers, in the end came seeking her help.
She isn’t bothered by what Helen says about her. Worse things have already been said about her. Perhaps, Helen doesn’t attribute much importance to her status, but she is narrow-minded and not particularly smart. She had also come upon people like that more than once in her life. They would hate her and make fun of her, but in a time of crisis they would come to her frightened and shameless, swallowing their pride to get a few snippets of information to help them in times of trouble. It didn’t always help. Milka could call up the spirits her clients wanted to commune with, but she had no control over what they would say. She made her name as a serious and reliable medium, and earned many enemies. Souls whose rest is disturbed, aren’t quick to forgive. On the other hand, there are souls that are easy to call up because they are closer—but even from these, Milka seeks protection. These are complex, tormented souls, the stray spirits, trapped in the sling shot, that wander and roam around the world and find no respite or rest. These souls search in vain for that which can no longer be found. These souls respond to her call immediately. They welcome anything that can ease their situation. Some are begging to atone, some are angry and seek revenge, some lose hope. All of them return to where they come from when they discover that their return does not alleviate their suffering. This is why Milka prefers to stay. She knows what awaits her and wishes to avoid it. Now, after all these years, she still is not certain if she has made the right decision, but she knows that it is not within her ability to change anything.
***
The days that follow leave me and all the residents of the house feeling edgy. Benny counts the nights to know when the jeep-driver and his young friend will return, and worries that he has lost count or has become confused. Oved completely loses his patience, when Benny asks him for the fifth time if three or four nights have gone by. After this outburst, he leaves the house for two days and returns on the morning that the crunch of wheels at the front door is heard again.
This time, the jeep arrives with a group of men wea
ring yellow protective headgear, who begin offloading measuring equipment, orange cones, and long nylon ribbons from a battered pick-up. They begin placing their equipment in front of the house. The energetic young man with his notepad is also there, and, with his fashionable coat and protective headgear, resembles a model from those stage-managed ads you find on Internet websites. He gives orders and his arms jerk to the beat of a hip-hop dancer as he moves around the house enthusiastically, making notes in his little notepad. They measure the house in all directions and go round it repeatedly, which makes Oved and Helen chase around the various rooms like lab mice on energy pills to get a clear view each time the inspectors change their location. This carries on the entire morning. All this time, the jeep-driver stays close to his shiny vehicle, dealing with a continuous spate of phone calls. Every now and then, he and the fellow who resembles a model, exchange remarks. It’s irritating to see how pleased they are with themselves.
While Oved and Helen float insanely all over the house, Leah sits hugging herself on the stairs, is if scared to see what is going on outside. Benny and I remain standing facing the front door and try to catch snippets of the jeep-driver’s conversation. The inspectors will do what they wish, they are just employees. The jeep-driver is the one giving orders. I am unable to listen in to most of his conversations. At one stage, the model comes so close to the door that I can’t see him, only hear him. The rattling sounds on the door, clearly indicate that it is locked with an iron chain that he appears to have examined carefully.
“Hey, Mottie, did you remember to get the key?”
The jeep-driver, who leans over the hood, hangs up and puts his phone away. It appears he has a name. Mottie.
“No. It has to be dismantled with a cutter. Why? Are you finished taking the exterior measurements?”
The model continues clanging the chain as if he expects it to come apart. Oved and Helen both hurry to the door. The jeep driver, or Mottie, carries on shouting from his position near the jeep.
“Roman! Bring the cutter, we’ll open the door.”
“They dare not touch the door and enter,” Helen whispers from behind the door. “I forbid them to touch the door.” But they continue. One of the surveyors, who, from the breadth of his shoulders, looks as if he could easily pull the door off its hinges, brings a pair of giant cutters from the truck.
“They cannot touch the door,” Helen says again.
“Actually, they can,” Oved replies somberly, “and, if our friend here succeeds in bribing the right people, they will be able to a lot more.”
“If they break the door in, the house will collapse on them. This whole structure will crumble!” Benny says optimistically.
I feel as though an attack of hysteria is brewing up in Helen and that it is only a matter of time and a few bent pieces of metal until she loses it completely.
The noise made by the iron chain clanging repeatedly on the old door is not pleasant. And, when a sound like that echoes in a dusty, abandoned house, it is even worse. If we add the emotional charge this noise now creates among the five spirits, we have an extremely upsetting experience.
The chain does not surrender easily to Roman and his muscles. The whole time, Helen continues muttering with growing agitation,
“They can’t come in, I will not allow it under any circumstances, it’s a cheek, what impudence.”
Oved and Benny tense up. Leah shrinks back even more and can’t move from her place on the stairs.
Then, a loud ‘clack’ is heard and the door is pushed in with the chilling creaking of its hinges. Blinding light floods the house. For a few seconds, I cannot see anything except for the bright daylight. I am amazed how quickly one grows accustomed to the dark and forgets the existence of a more illuminated reality.
Just as the three people enter the hall, Helen, Oved, Leah, and Benny flee to the high ceiling together with the clouds of dust that rise from the floor. Perhaps it isn’t the right thing to do, but I prefer not to join them, and so I remain standing at the front door, right behind Mottie, who steps confidently into the house. It is difficult to resist extending one’s hand and trying to touch his leather jacket. Roman begins coughing immediately, and while I try to grow accustomed to the light; they try to adapt to the relative darkness in the house. The model stands in the center of the hall with his hands on his hips and surveys the ceiling. It seems as if he is trying to check out the four characters who float overhead, but, of course, he can’t see them. He only sees the rotting wooden beams supporting the ceiling and the curtains of spider webs that hang on them.
Mottie enters the living room and surveys it with a look of amazement. I enter after him. He approaches the sofa and passes his finger over the wooden frame, just as I tried to do the first time I saw it. This identical reaction does not appeal to me, nor does the fact that, as opposed to me, he is left with a layer of thick dust on his finger.
“Classy, isn’t it?” He called out to the model, who is still concentrating on the ceiling, checking it out along its length and breadth.
“You know, Baron Rothschild, himself, lived here for a period. Imagine what it will be like—a night for two in the Baron’s Suite. Really classy.” But the model is not really paying him attention. He is examining the staircase.
“Mottie, do yourself a favor, and put on your hard hat. There are some serious cracks in the pillars.” Roman, who apparently also suffers from dust allergies, immediately volunteers to bring another hard hat from the truck. Mottie leaves the living room and approaches the model near the stairs. “So, what do you say happened?”
“I say you should put on your headgear at once! Do you see the cracks there, and there?” He points to two places where the wall-paper has split in the joint between the wall and the ceiling. “Those are the pillars. The exact location of the metal beams needs to be checked, but there seems to be a serious problem here.”
I glance at Helen. She is very sensitive to comments about her house. Her fists are clenched, and her mouth is clammed shut so tightly, that if she were alive, I fear she might break her teeth. But she doesn’t say a word, and at this moment, Roman returns with an additional hard hat and hands it to Mottie.
“Do you want engineering equipment here, Guspadin Engineer, sir?” he asks the model in a heavy Russian accent. Apparently, the formal profession of the young man with the notepad is not connected to the world of fashion modeling. Pity, he actually has the look. It seems we’re dealing with a professional, and he doesn’t need any equipment to determine after a quick round of the kitchen and dining room, that the plumbing of the house is not connected to running water, and, in any case, such a system, if there was one, would not be operational in its current condition. With regard to the pillars supporting the house, the diagnosis is that they are likely to crumble with the slightest touch. He dismisses Mottie’s suggestion to go up to the second floor without a second thought. The verdict is unequivocal—the house is beyond repair. Years of neglect have put that possibility completely out of the question. The other assessors apparently support the view of the engineer. They huddle near the entrance and steal glances inside, but avoid entering.
“Find an architect who specializes in restoration and prepare the bulldozers,” said the fashion-plate engineer. “And you would be well advised to get out of here, if you don’t wear protective headgear.”
As the door of the house closes behind Mottie and his group of engineers, Helen puts on a ballistic encore that she has been cooking up since the morning. Her outburst is stronger than any I have ever witnessed. I feel so sore for her that I cannot complain about her tantrum that has been carrying on unceasingly for hours and could break even the patience of the Dalai Lama. As usual, the string of screams consists of a limited pool of random word combinations that repeat themselves ad infinitum. The comic aspect of it is the only thing that makes the sad atmosphere in the house a little more tolerable.
“So, what are you planning to do?” I ask.
“Find someplace else,” Oved replies. “One always has to find somewhere else, in the end.” He says this as though he is talking about a simple action like getting off the bus when it reaches your regular stop, but it was clear that the tone of his voice did not truly reflect his feelings. He has, perhaps, come to terms with the situation, but he certainly isn’t as unaffected by it as he tries to appear.
“How many times have you moved?” I ask. From what I gather, Oved arrived at the house a few years after Milka and a few years before Benny. It is difficult to tell how many exactly, but whatever the case, it is a short period by comparison to the number of years they have already been dead. If they moved house once in a hundred years, they should have moved at least thirty times. What a depressing thought. I have moved house only once in my life, at the age of six, and I recall mainly a sense of loss and confusion that accompanies a move—and all that when we only made a change of neighborhood in the same city. I even continued attending the same nursery school, yet still made a big fuss. In the end, this gave birth to “Coping Together to Make Changes,” which happens when I am still unaware that my life is to serve as fertile ground to promote my mother’s writing and fame. So, I had not yet developed advanced smokescreen and indifference techniques.
Oved still hasn’t answered my question, to Benny and Leah’s great relief, who don’t want to hear the answer. Instead, he sits down and says, “You’re making too much fuss. It’s only a house. You’ll find a new place for yourselves and forget it.”
The House of Lost Spirits: A Paranormal Novel Page 12
