The House of Lost Spirits: A Paranormal Novel

by Einat Shimshoni

  “It is possible, but not alone. Someone has to defend you. Mostly, it’s up to your relatives, the people who loved you in your lifetime. That is the reason for eulogies at the gravesite and prayers for the soul of the departed.”

  When I was a child, the school janitor died of heart failure. The school held a memorial in his memory, and the children from the various classes read dedications to him that they addressed to Our Beloved Isaac, whose smile, patience, and devotion we will always remember. None of these fond farewells mentioned a word about Isaac, the old ‘crosspatch’ who everyone called behind his back, “Isaac, the stupid old fool, thinks he’s the boss of all the school.” At the time, the memorial service seemed false and insulting, but, maybe, it was not so bad. After all, what harm is there in saying something beautiful about someone, if that can give him a little push in the right direction? Perhaps, the psychological principles of my mother about kind words creating a different and supportive reality for a child are justified, also for those who are no longer children or are no longer among the living. I think of the eulogies at my grandmother’s grave when she passed away three years ago, which were real and reminded me what a good, warm woman she had been, but also bothered me. What value is there in talking like that about a person after they’re dead? Why couldn’t the mourners tell Grandma how wonderful she was while she was still alive?

  When I said that to Grandpa Moshe after the funeral, he just shrugged and said, “That’s the custom, sweet Noga.” Grandpa Moshe and Granny Shoshana were religiously observant. My Dad turned his back on religion at the same time as he left the farming village, and refused to observe the seven days of mourning together with his family. My father claimed that it was impossible to take off a whole week from work, even though the law obliged his workplace to enable him to do so. He preferred to curl up alone with his sorrow on his living-room sofa with his collection of old movies to spending seven days closeted with a mass of uncles and aunts, relatives, and visitors who would ask him what he was doing. (“It brings in a good income, doesn’t it?”) How many children do you have? (“Only one? What? Don’t you want a large family?”) and why don’t we see you more often? So, after the funeral, we only stayed for one more day. Mother rented a B & B in the village. She didn’t want to “impose.” And we went home. Grandpa Moshe eulogized, prayed, said Kaddish, and lit a memorial candle. He sat on a low stool, even though his joints weren’t what they used to be, and I could not but wonder why and for whom he was doing all this. What was better about the ceremonial and prescribed mourning he observed than my father’s drowning his sorrow in old movies? But his answer was the same simple and obscure one. “That’s the custom, dear Noga. That’s how we say goodbye.”

  Did he take leave of me like that, too? Did they also eulogize me? Did they say beautiful things about me that painted my personality in pleasant shades, even if they aren’t all that accurate? Did they also speak up for me and pray that my soul be favorably received, as Milka described it? And does it matter at all? When I finally face trial, will the defending angel stand up and say, “Yes, Noga was self-centered and ungrateful, but see here, her fifth grade class-teacher said that she was a kind and positive child.”

  As cynically as I relate to this portrayal of myself, there is something hopeful about it.

  The expression on Milka’s face says it all. There had been no one to praise her at her graveside. No one had prayed for her soul. No one had loved her in her lifetime, and no one had mentioned her on her death. Then, the words came out of my mouth, even before I thought them, “I will defend your right.”

  I surprise her again. Milka stares at me wide-eyed in disbelief.

  “There will be a trial, won’t there? They listen to you there. I will speak on your behalf. I will say that you had good intentions. I will tell them that you helped all the others release themselves from here.”

  Milka doesn’t say a thing. I thought she would be happy, that she would thank me, but she just faces me, and it is difficult to interpret her expression. It takes several minutes until I understand. She doesn’t believe me; she can’t believe I would do it for her. And the truth is, why would anyone believe it? All my life, I have held a positive view of myself, but when I think about it, I have never really done anything for anyone. I never volunteered at hospitals, or visited the aged in retirement homes, or collected food for needy families. Perhaps I never was purposely bad, but I never made any special effort to do good, not even to reward my parents, the people who did everything for my benefit. I preferred to notice their little weaknesses that allowed me to justify mine. Milka claims that my problem is that I have no faith—not in the world, and not in myself. But she has proved me right. She doesn’t believe me now. No, I don’t need her to say that. Her expression and her silence say it all. I turn my back on her and go down below.

  The noise outside has ceased. In the heat of the conversation with Milka, I had not noticed that the workers had finished their day’s work, and the site is now surrounded by a fence, bearing warning signs of, “Danger, Building Site.” The large bulldozer stands silent at the edge of the plot, and the setting sun casts a long, threatening shadow of its shape. They haven’t completed their demolition work; they will be back tomorrow. I should leave tonight, not that I have a clue where to go. Perhaps I will go with Milka, even though I don’t feel particularly drawn to her, but it’s better than nothing.

  I plan to go back up before the house gets dark to tell Milka that it’s time to move, but she anticipates me.

  “I am ready,” she says.

  “Where will we go? Do you know how to get to the house that Oved mentioned?”

  Milka does not reply.

  “Or is there someplace else you know, like a cave or something?”

  She still doesn’t answer.

  “Or can we simply throw ourselves in all directions and just land somewhere? Just as I found myself here without understanding how I got here.”

  Milka continues to keep her silence, and then I say, a little irritated, “Well, I don’t know what to do. You’re the one with the experience of transitioning like this, and it will help if you can share some of your knowledge.”

  Finally, she says, “I’m willing. I will help if you will bear witness for me.”

  Only now I notice how short and emaciated she is. Perhaps the vast emptiness of the entrance hall with its high ceiling makes her look smaller and more shriveled. Or her more bowed and less confident posture was different from how I was used to seeing her. In any case, the experienced old lady standing before me now looked like a frightened little girl. For a moment, I wanted to go and embrace her. That moment passed as soon as Milka added in her hard, raspy voice, “You can renege; you don’t have to keep your word.”

  But I don’t want to break my promise.

  “I will do it,” I say, and there is something about reaffirming my undertaking that is very soothing, and fills me with a strange sense of security, as if I know where I am going even if the path is unfamiliar.

  Milka nodded for a split second, and I think I see something on her face that comes close to a smile. The space between us had become embarrassingly intimate, like two strangers stuck in an elevator. I turn my head to the windows at the entrance where I can see the red horizon of the sunset.

  In ninth grade, they took us on a trip to see the dawn at Mount Arbel. After a nightmarish overnight bus trip of raging hormones and awful teenage music, we came to the peak to watch the sunrise over the Golan. Between the whistles of amazement of the romantics and mocking snorts of the cynics, a depressing thought overcame me that, despite the beauty of the sunrise, sunsets are more impressive and more beautiful. I am confident that Milka will agree with me on this, but when I turn around to share this last philosophical thought with her before parting, she is no longer there.

  I was alone in the large house. I could say that the silence was like a heavy blanket
or some other beautiful metaphor, but the truth is that the silence was pretty mundane, and the thought of being covered by blankets doesn’t mean much to me anymore.

  The last rays of light disappear, and the house is dark.

  Milka believes me and trusts me to support her. I will exalt her and keep my word. She is confident that my words will have the power to extricate her. I don’t know what the hollow of the sling is, or exactly how my words will get her out of it, and perhaps she is no longer there, at all, or may even have moved to another, better place, one where she can feel complete. I know one thing. I am going to keep my promise. My mission is clear, and only I can carry it out. For the first time, I am sure I am capable of doing so.

  The darkness enfolds me from all directions, blurring the boundaries and blending the shadows. In utter silence, without the bulldozer’s blows, the walls of the house collapse around me.

  ***

  Epilogue

  For Elihai, with infinite yearning.

  He opened his eyes, then blinked at the sun that filtered through the cracks of the bamboo matting that covered the roof of the shed. He raised himself a little, leaning on his elbows and checked out his surroundings. Scattered around him were soft mattresses, cane benches, and straw mats. Here and there were low bamboo tables with glasses of black coffee and herbal tea. In the distance, he could hear the ebb and flow of the sea, but could feel no breeze. He tried to recall how he got there, straining his brain in his attempt to reconstruct the last moments before everything went dark. They were on the cliff, just at the end of a particularly successful climb, and were making their way back to the car. The weather was ideal, and the visibility was clear enough to reveal the familiar yet breathtaking view. He was telling a joke, one of those one tells under particular circumstances to people, who know how to listen with understanding and even laugh at them. Perhaps it was the laughter that moved his whole body or shook it or the reduction of tension after a climb that lessens concentration. He tripped on a stone, and his body, with its heavy backpack of equipment, lost its balance. The view around him turned into a vortex of colors, and he felt a heavy blow on the back of his neck and then, nothing.

  He sat up and passed his hand over the back of his neck. Everything was whole, not even slightly swollen, and he felt no pain.

  “Welcome, bro!”

  He turned his head in the direction of the voice, and discovered a sun-burnished young fellow, in shorts, his head crowned with dreadlocks, smoking a hookah on one of the benches.

  “Wassup, man?” he replied. He didn’t quite know why, but the guy appealed to him. Altogether, the place gave him a great feeling of calm, as if he were floating.

  “Everything’s good, bro,” the guy with the dreadlocks replied, “What’s with you?”

  “Wow, I’m cool.” So many questions raced about in his head, but he’s not sure which one he should ask first. Finally, he points to the hookah, “May I?”

  “Sure bro, be my guest.”

  He took a drag but felt nothing.

  “It has no taste, man.”

  The fellow with the dreadlocks shrugs.

  “That’s for sure, bro. It’s just set dressing. It’s like taste and touch don’t play a role here.”

  He thought he knew what the fellow meant, but gave the thought a few moments to penetrate and sink in. The fellow did not push him to continue the conversation; he just sat there quietly and kept blowing tiny smoke rings from his hookah.

  “So, that blow to my head was fatal, ha?” he asks, and the fellow with the dreadlocks nods.

  “Is that so?”

  “It is.”

  “What happens now?”

  “Now, you wait for your trial. You have time until it begins.” The young guy glances at him. “Are you feeling pressured? You can get help to prepare if you want.”

  He thinks about it for a few minutes. No, he isn’t under pressure. He has a talent for getting out of all kinds of situations, and he is sure that he will manage this one, too, but there is something else that troubles him.

  “Tell me, is it possible to send a message through?” he asks.

  The dreadlocks guy sits down with his hookah and releases a cloud of smoke.

  “Sure. It’s a fair trial. You will be able to tell your side.”

  “No, I mean, send a message to those who remained there. You know. Family, friends, and there’s someone, a really special woman.”

  The fellow with the dreadlocks straightens up and puts down the hookah.

  “Look, it’s like this, brother. We only do things like that in exceptional circumstances. It requires permission from a higher authority.”

  He holds his head in both hands and rests his elbows on his knees. He had not planned to go like that, not now. It’s not as though he is complaining. To be honest, it’s not such a bad way to go, but the thought of the people he loves so much makes his stomach churn. The fellow with the dreadlocks scratches the mop on his head for a few moments as if he were trying to sort out a complicated thought, then leans forward and speaks in a low tone of voice, as if saying something he isn’t supposed to say.

  “Look, bro, perhaps there’s some way of getting messages across. Truth is, I kinda dig you. Why not tell me what’s in your heart and I’ll find some way to get it over to them.”

  He lifts his head and leans back, staring at the blue skies and sun’s rays through the cracks in the matted roof. He closes his eyes and tries to empty his head of the noise of the distant waves. When he opens his mouth, the words come out before he manages to think about them.

  “Tell them not to feel too down about me, just live their life, soft and easy, and make it a great life. Tell them to do what makes them feel good and do it often. Go on trips, but not to forget to take a hat and plenty of water.”

  He opened his eyes. The guy with the dreadlocks smiles at him.

  “So that’s it?” he asks.

  He stands and stretches his arms to the sides, as if waking after a deep sleep.

  “It was great meeting you,” he says to the guy with the dreadlocks, who smiles and goes back to his hookah.

  He turns toward the sea and strides smoothly toward infinity and beyond.

  Acknowledgments

  Many good people assisted me in the writing and publishing of this book. The first of them is my beloved sister, Tamar Weinberg, without whose support, faith and encouragement, none of it would have been realized.

  Thanks are due to the first readers, who agreed to read the book in its early raw stages, and expressed their opinions: Golan Elyasaf, Shira and Aharon Cohen, Efrat Cohen, Shira Sapir, Racheli Mizrachi, Yael Yaniv-Rosenfeld, Matanya Dagan, and Ayalla Weinberg.

  Thank you to my marvelous editor, Dafna Shechori, who guided the book with patience and sensitivity.

  Thanks are also due to The First Aliyah Museum in Zichron Ya’akov for their research assistance.

  And, special thanks to my family, who are always there for me.

  “…Even if our mouth were filled with song as the sea (is filled with water), our tongue with melody as the roar of the waves, and our lips with praise as the breadth of the firmament; and our eyes were radiant like the sun and the moon, our hands spread out as the (wings of the eagles) of the sky, and our feet as swift as the deer – we would still be unable to thank You, Lord our God and God of our fathers, and bless Your Name for even one of the innumerable myriads of favors, miracles and wonders which You have performed for us…”

  Nishmat Kol Hai- a prayer said on Sabbath morning and holy festivals.

 

 

 
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