The Hidden Back Room
Page 31
It occurred to me that the figure pounding on the roof of the house with such dedication was not a man, but rather a ghost. The idea seemed certain to me as soon as I entertained it, and I greeted it with curiosity, yet an innate fear compelled me to disbelieve the notion. Isn’t that funny? Because I was afraid, I would not believe the thing that frightened me. Therefore I could not justify my fear, but neither could I dispel it—which, in turn, hobbled my inquisitiveness (that quality born of belief). The end result being, I could not choose to seek out what I did not want to find. I don’t think my reaction was atypical for such a situation; if so, I can’t see how humanity’s collective exploration of these mysteries could progress unhampered if our appeal to logic is ever born from our desire to remain ignorant. I, in particular, had no excuse—what had I left to fear in this world, even if it bled from the next? Yet, even as I felt safer in this dark and strange place than in my bright hospital room, still I struggled with a compulsion to hurl myself back to the mercies of the storm. It was as though the waiting tempest was real, and though it offered only my final, desperate days, its cruel embrace was at least familiar, whereas the place in which I found myself was somehow distinct from those aspects I might consider natural, and so, not real at all.
One condition was yet very real to me: I was soaked to the skin. I removed my shirt and wrung the rain from it into a broad-lipped ceramic bowl—likely the first moisture it had felt in years. The grill in the fireplace was clean; a few blackened cinders poked up from a sheet of white ash beneath. Rough-hewn quarter-logs were stacked neatly beside the brick. I listened to the unabated pounding from above and leapt to the deduction that it would continue the length of the storm. I had no reason to believe this to be true, but my dubious conclusion allowed me the justification I needed to redress my immediate needs. The parched wood flared easily. In my haste, I’d forgotten to check the flue; I was glad to discover that it appeared to be open.
The fire chased the dust I’d disturbed to the rafters. The room had not been at all cold, but I welcomed the radiant warmth on my skin. The fire served to light the room much more reliably, as well. I found a rusted hanger with strength left to hold my sodden shirt; this I hung near the hearth. The gun I discarded on a long, wide shelf affixed under a row of three square windows. I retrieved the flickering lamp with the intention of searching the rest of the small house. There was a doorway off to my right, but I was more interested in the stairs leading to what must have been a low-ceilinged second floor, much like a Cape Cod. I thought I should see whether my paranormal imaginings were justified or if there truly was roof access.
I realised that one theory was proven wrong already: though the storm continued, the pounding had stopped.
The smoke!—I thought, for it seemed likely the emanations from the chimney had alerted the man to my presence where my shouts had failed. Or he had noticed me before and took no mind, whereas my lighting the fire had given offence? My thoughts flashed with panic as I considered which I would least want to offend: a live host or a dead one.
I looked at the front door and thought simultaneously, He might come in that way, and, I could go out that way, still unsure if it was better to stay or to leave. I remembered seeing a low, squat door in the back of the house. I thought I should see if alternate egress was available. I held the lamp in front of me though it obstructed my vision as much as assisted it. I recalled advice that one should whistle when hiking through black bear country, for they would likely leave you alone if they knew you were coming and attack only if startled. I imagined the inconstant light of the lamp might serve some similar purpose.
The back of the house mirrored the front in that it was a single room, but whereas the front was wide and open, the back was long and cramped. The room appeared purposed to the business of the house. It was sectioned by sinks and counters of varying depth and implied application. Nearer to me were tubs and apparatus for a laundry; a larger tub for a bath sat behind a rod still adorned with empty rings. Though cloaked in unsettling and unsettled shadow, a kitchen was identifiable towards the far end. I thought I saw an open space dropping away beyond it, and I imagined a root cellar or pantry dug into the earth. I did not care to investigate that far. The back door was obstructed: the side of a set of hanging shelves had fallen away; a middle shelf rested at an angle on the bottom one, while the top shelf had broken free and continued the angle across the door.
I was struck by how difficult it seemed to date the contents of the house. I guessed that nothing I had seen was less than fifty years old, though I knew that in a rural setting such as this, habitation by a person who prefers the rustic life might indicate more recent occupation. Yet I could also easily believe (if not for impossibly good upkeep) that everything I saw was a century old or more.
A sound interrupted this musing. I had expected that, between repair work and entry, I should hear some sort of scuttling across the roof, but I did not. Instead, creaking wood reported distinct footsteps directly above me. My host was inside, on the second floor.
I hurried silently back into the front room, padding sideways towards the door as I kept my gaze on the stairs. But I did not leave. I waited and listened to the footfalls as they descended the stairs. I listened and watched, and watching, I saw nothing—even when I was sure that the steps had reached the floor. There was no sound for several seconds—not even my breath. Then the steps sounded on the floor to indicate someone moving into the room. I stared at the floor, but the dust remained undisturbed. I blinked and tried to find the form in the empty air, but saw no distortion of the wall and windows behind.
Then lightning struck and I saw him. Not his features, not his mien, but his shape, as before on the roof—outlined against the storm. I saw his shoulders and head in the windows, but not through the windows; he was undoubtedly in the house with me, but it seemed his form required the rain and the lightning to define it. As soon as the flash abated, there was once more nothing to be seen. But in that brief glance, I was sure that he regarded me, that he . . . took my measure.
I tried to swallow but the dry air caught in my throat and I coughed. The meek sound was terrible to hear, as though it revealed my position, even if I felt sure he already saw me plainly. It was worse for me to hear the whimper in it that announced how frightened I was, and how unreliable my body in the face of my fear.
The floorboards creaked as though he turned and stepped towards the windows.
The gun!
It was no good to me, but I hated having left it there, out of place, an intrusion on his home. Indeed, the atmosphere grew leaden as though his displeasure thickened and darkened it. The lightning flashed again and I could see his silhouette; I thought I saw his head lowered, his shoulders tensed. I felt sad somehow, that I had failed in such a way as to be unwelcome. Terror, failure, debilitating tension—all these urged me to the door and out into the dark and the storm. So I have no idea why I did the very different thing I did instead.
Leaning next to the iron poker and tongs was a Shaker broom. I half-expected the handle to crumble at my touch, but it did not. I had even less right to think the brittle sorghum tassels wouldn’t split and shed at the first brush. I swept gently, barely touching bristles to floor, wanting neither the broom to disintegrate nor the dust to erupt into a choking cloud. Slowly, painfully slowly, I shuffled about the room, sweeping up the dust of untold ages. So intent was I upon my task that the ominous pressure disappeared without my noticing its diminution. I became aware of the freer feel of the room only when I heard the new sounds from the back.
I paused my sweeping and collected the lamp. I stood at the doorway to the back room and gazed down its length. I watched as the collapsed shelves were righted by invisible hands and listened to hammer falls similarly unaccountable. At one point the movements and sounds stopped, and I felt an echo of the earlier displeasure. Not wanting to cause offense, I returned to my task.
I pushed a sizable pile of blonde dust into a rusted and ben
t tray or plate and then threw it on the fire. It blazed in a ball, for an instant lighting the room orange in all corners. I laughed at the brief flame, I don’t know why.
I threw the gun out the front door into the mud.
When I’d finished sweeping, I felt fantastically tired. There was no cushioned furniture and not a stitch of usable fabric for a blanket or a pillow. I simply laid down on the floor in front of the fire and put my arm under my head. It could not occur to me in my exhaustion to wonder if I should yet have been wary of my host. I tried vainly to prolong my gracious appreciation of the fire, but the colours blurred within seconds.
The fire was out when I awoke the next morning, but I drizzled the water I had squeezed from my shirt over the ash to be sure it was extinguished. I glanced into the back room just long enough to confirm that the shelves were repaired. I felt the best expression of gratitude was to not test the limits of hospitality. I intended to leave the gun where it landed, and simply cover it over with mud, but I could not find it.
I was only vaguely lost; I walked towards the rising sun. I was stiff and achy, but not anything like I deserved to be, considering my experiences and my bed. Perhaps two hours after leaving the cabin, I emerged from the woods not a hundred yards from where my car was still parked.
I removed the letter to my sister from my mailbox. I called her that afternoon and informed her of my illness. She was angry I had waited so long to tell her. It was surprisingly gratifying to be reprimanded.
I wish I could say that a miraculous recovery followed my incredible experience. It did not. Nevertheless, I am in some sense healed and thankful for it. It may seem a strange moral to derive from an encounter with a shade who evinced his conviction so literally, but I have learned that what we build up does not fall with us, and I have decided that if there is good I can add and a day I can have, I will do both.
Contents
Copyright Information
CONTENTS
dedication
THE HIDDEN BACK ROOM
TANOROAR
GUT PUNCH
ON BALANCE
THE RAIN-DIRTY VALLEY
THE HOMUNCULUS IN THE CURIO
A BLOOD WITHOUT BLOOD
THE DREAMS OF PALE NIGHT
THE HOUSE ON NORTH CONGRESS STREET
DETAILS
COMFORTIDOR
IN THE LIBRARY
LES OMBRES CHINOISES
STRONGER THAN ALL STORMS