by Amy Cross
“Hello?” I whisper, before telling myself that there's clearly no-one around.
I guess Greta must have sent someone to help me out, and the person left before I woke up. For a moment, I try to figure out how they could have got into the house and put more logs on the fire, but I guess I'm just getting confused about that part. Obviously no-one came into the house. I just forgot about a few logs last night, and then some unseen helper showed up and moved the logs for me. Greta probably thought she was being friendly, although I would have been happier if she'd at least mentioned what she was doing first.
Hauling one of the bags inside, I drag it to the front room, and then I go to the kitchen so I can finish making breakfast. I've got a long day ahead, and I'm going to start by sorting through Dad's boxes in the attic.
***
Except I don't have to bring the boxes from the attic, because instead I find that they're all in the spare room, and most of them have already been emptied out onto the bed and the desk.
Holding a cup of tea in my hands, I wander over to the desk and see that Dad's old photo albums are open. Dougie and I put these together for him, to mark his seventieth birthday, although he never seemed particularly interested in the past. I have no idea who would have been going through all his things like this, but I guess it must have been someone who came to the house after his death. I don't like the idea of some stranger poring over Dad's possessions, and I swear I don't remember Dougie mentioning that he gave anyone permission.
Still, it's strange to see all these old photos, and one of the albums has been left open on a page that shows Dougie and I when we were just little kids, with Dad smiling awkwardly at the camera. I can't help feeling a pang of sorrow in my chest as I look at Dad's face. I hope he knew, even though I didn't come to see him very often, how much I loved him.
Maybe he did.
Maybe he didn't.
Suddenly there's a loud bang from downstairs, as if a door was slammed shut. I turn and look out toward the top of the stairs, and a moment later there's another bang, this time coming from a different room.
Telling myself not to overreact, I head out onto the landing and look down toward the hallway, but there's no sign of anyone. Besides, I made sure to lock the doors, and Dougie told me that no-one else had any keys. I wait for a moment, wondering whether I should arm myself with something heavy in case there's an intruder, but then I head downstairs while listening for any hint that I've got company.
“Hello?” I call out.
Silence.
This is dumb. I'm dumb. There's no-one here.
“Hello?” I say again, but already the worst of my fear has passed.
Wandering through to the front room, I see that the oven is still roaring, heating the house. I turn to head into the kitchen, but at the last moment I stop and turn back. Dad's armchair, the one that he always sat in when he was having a cigarette, is in its usual place next to the window, but I swear it was further toward the middle of the room when I arrived. I hesitate, telling myself that I must be mistaken, before realizing that it was definitely in the middle. I walk over to take a look, and I quickly realize that I can smell something very familiar.
Cologne.
The same cologne that Dad always used.
I look around, wondering why the smell is suddenly so strong in the room, but nothing seems out of place. Still, I can really smell Dad's cologne, almost as if he walked straight through this room just a few seconds ago. I take a step closer to the chair, and I can see the indentation he left on the cushion after sitting there night after night for so many years. It's almost like he was here just before I entered the room, and he left a fraction of a second before I would have seen him.
Great. Less than twenty-four hours and I'm already cracking up. I'd better nip that in the bud before I really start letting my imagination run wild.
God, I could use a drink right about now.
***
It takes me a long time to find the right tree, out in the woodland at the rear of the house, but finally I spot a few tell-tale pieces of wood nailed up high.
The tree-house.
I remember Dad building that thing when Dougie and I were kids. To be honest, we were both probably a little too old to be playing in a tree-house by that point, but Dad got the idea into his head and decided he wanted to make something for us, so he spent a few days up there one summer. Dougie complained that it was a stupid idea, but I liked seeing Dad at work. He was so strong and inventive, and to be fair to him the tree-house was really sturdy.
There's not much left of it now, of course, thanks to all the harsh winters that have come through the area since those days. I guess each winter wore a little of the wood away and pulled out a nail or two. I can just about make out part of the main platform, though, along with one of the walls and even a section of the roof. So some of it, at least, managed to survive.
“Just be careful when you climb up and down,” I remember Dad telling me, as he stood behind me with a hand on my shoulder. “Keep hold of the rope-ladder and don't rush.”
“I won't,” I replied.
“Your brother doesn't seem very keen on it,” he muttered, a rare case of him admitting to any kind of doubt.
“He's like that, Dad,” I told him. “Don't worry. It looks really cool.”
I swear, I can almost hear his voice even now, so many years later. For a few minutes, despite the cold and the falling snow, I stand and look up at the tree-house's remains, and I can't help wishing that Dad could come back so that I'd be able to tell him how much I miss him. Dougie thinks I should have moved on by now, that I should be like him and that I should accept that Dad's gone. The truth, though, is that I feel there was so much I left unsaid, and I can't help worrying that I never let him know how I really felt. That summer when I went to the city, for example...
I was supposed to come and spend a few months here.
Instead, I took the job and told Dad I'd visit when I got a chance. He sounded pleased for me, he probably understood that it was my one and only chance, but I'd give anything to be able to go back and change my decision.
I hesitate for a moment, before suddenly realizing that I can feel his hand on my shoulder.
I freeze, not daring to turn and look. For a moment, I feel a sense of panic in my chest, but then I realize that I actually like the sensation. I know there's no way he's actually still here, of course, but I swear I can feel his hand resting on my shoulder. When I turn around, the sensation will go away, so I stay where I am and I continue to look up at the tree-house, and I allow myself to enjoy this illusion for just a little while longer.
“Welcome home,” Dad's voice says suddenly.
Startled, I turn around, convinced that not only did I hear him, but that I smelled his cologne and felt his breath on the back of my neck. I take a step back, stumbling in the snow and falling flat on my ass, but of course there's no sign of anyone nearby. All I see is the white-walled house, and my own breath in the cold air.
My heart is pounding, though, and I can't help looking around.
That voice was so clear and crisp, and so close. Could an illusion really sound so real?
Of course it could, I tell myself quickly. That's why they call them illusions. If they didn't seem real, then they wouldn't be anything to begin with. I've just let myself get caught up in my memories, that's all.
I need to get a grip.
And then, just as I'm about to head back into the house, I look up at one of the windows and see a figure staring down at me.
Four
“We've checked every room twice over,” Officer Michaels says as we stand on the porch at the front of the house. “Is it possible that what you saw was just a shadow or a trick of the light?”
“There was someone there,” I reply, even though I know how crazy I sound. If I was in his position, I'm not sure I'd believe me either.
He must think I'm nuts.
“I didn't see the face,” I
continue, taking a step back and looking up at the windows. “It was like the shape of a person, it was blurry but it was definitely real. I'm not the kind of person who imagines things.”
“I didn't say you were. But the light out here at this time of year can be tricky. It changes quickly.”
I turn to him, and it's clear that there's no way I can make him believe me.
“Can I make a suggestion?” he asks, starting to zip his jacket closed as he makes his way down the steps and heads toward his patrol car. “There's a perfectly good motel in town, just off the main road. It's called the Eldorado, and you might be better off staying there for the rest of your time in the area. This house is a long way from anywhere, and maybe you're not used to a place like this.”
I watch as he opens the car door.
“A place like this?” I ask cautiously.
“You're from New York, right?”
“What does that have to do with me seeing someone in the house?”
“You're not used to the isolation. You're not used to the idea that there's no-one around for miles and miles.” He hesitates, as snow continues to fall from the gray-white sky. “If you ask me, people can't always shift from one habitat to another without an adjustment period. You live in the city, and you're used to there being folks all around you. So when you come to a place like this, maybe your brain starts filling in the gaps.”
“But I also -”
I catch myself just in time.
I was going to tell him about the hand I felt on my shoulder, but I guess that'd only make him even more convinced that I'm crazy.
Maybe he'd be right.
“Is your car okay?” he continues. “I can give you a ride into town if you need one.”
I hesitate, before shaking my head.
“So it works fine? Or -”
“I'm going to stay here,” I say firmly, even though the thought makes me feel a little uneasy. “I've got a lot to do.”
I can see from the look in his eyes that he's concerned, but after a moment he climbs into the car.
“Call if you change your mind,” he tells me, silhouetted in the driver's seat against the brilliant white snow at the far side of the yard. “I can still send someone out to give you a ride, any time of the day or night.”
With that, he offers a few more pleasantries before pulling his door shut and starting the engine. Stepping back, I watch as he drives away, and then I turn to look back at the house. The front door is ajar, and for a moment the hallway looks so empty and uninviting. There's a part of me that really wanted to take the officer up on his offer, but I know I could never live with myself if I ran away.
Besides, there's nothing here to run away from. Apart from my over-active imagination, I guess.
***
Singing to yourself is not the same as talking to yourself. That's what I tell myself, anyway, as I sit cross-legged near the wood-burner and sort through more of Dad's boxes. I'm absent-mindedly mumbling the lines to a few of my favorite old songs, which at least breaks up the silence of the house a little.
And this is one hell of a silent house.
The storm is coming back in full force outside as the light begins to fade. Vast snow swirls are racing across the yard, causing the nearby trees to bend and creak slightly. It's not a loud storm, by any means, but any noise out there just makes the inside of the house seem even quieter. Any time I move, any time I even shift my weight as I sit here, I feel like I'm disturbing Dad's home. I didn't notice at first, but I think I've actually begun to tip-toe a little whenever I move from room to room.
I almost feel bad for breathing.
And when my phone suddenly starts ringing after several hours of silence, I almost jump out of my skin.
“Hey,” I say as I answer, having already spotted my brother's name on the screen. “What's up?”
“Funny, that's what I was going to ask you. Are you done there yet?”
“I'm just getting started,” I reply, holding the phone between my cheek and shoulder as I sort through some old photos. “I found pictures. Lots of pictures. Who knew Dad was the sentimental type, huh?”
I can't help smiling as I see photos from an old fishing trip we took on one of our few visits to the house.
“I'm gonna digitize them when I get home,” I continue, “and then I'll send you copies.”
“Don't bother.”
“But some of these are -”
“I don't want them, Paula. I'll just delete them.”
Figuring that there's no point arguing with him, I continue sorting through the pictures. I assume he phoned for some specific reason, but now he's just silent on the other end of the line.
“So?” I ask finally.
“So what?”
“So you're the one who called me. Did you want something?”
I hear him sigh.
“Dougie -”
“We're gonna sell the house.”
I instantly flinch. “Says who?”
“Karen and I have been talking about it and -”
“Karen and you don't get to make the decision.”
“You're outvoted, Paula. Two of us versus one of you.”
“Why does Karen get to vote?” I ask. “She's your wife, she -”
“Because it affects her.”
“The house belongs to you and me now,” I point out. “Not you, me and Karen. You and I have to decide together and -”
“Karen is financially impacted by the situation,” he continues, interrupting me, “therefore we reasoned that she should get a vote. That makes three of us. I'm sorry you don't have a significant other who might vote too, but as things stand, there are three of us. And the decision to sell has been made on a two-to-one basis.”
“That's bullshit,” I point out.
“So do you want to live there?” he asks. “Is that what this is about? Do you want to up sticks from New York and move to the middle of nowhere?”
“And pay you rent?”
He sighs again. “We'd prefer a lump sum from a sale.”
“I bet you would,” I mutter, already imagining Karen's shrill voice as she demands money. Glancing toward the hallway, I'm suddenly panicked by the idea of somebody else moving into Dad's place. “I'm not -”
And then I freeze as I see a face reflected in the dresser that sits in the dining room, over past the hallway. The dresser has a glass front, and I swear there's a reflected face staring at me, as if someone is watching me from somewhere over on the dining room's other side. I stare for a moment, convinced that this has to be a trick of the light, but as I squint I start to realize that the face – although a little blurry – is definitely real.
I open my mouth to tell Dougie, but then the face seems to become a little clearer, and I recognize its features.
“Dad?” I whisper, feeling my heart start pounding in my chest.
“What about him?” Dougie asks.
I start getting to my feet, but the change of position makes the reflected face disappear. I quickly settle back down on the floor, and sure enough I see the face again.
“You know this makes sense,” Dougie continues. “Come on, Karen and I are doing you a favor. Dad would want us to liquidate his assets and use the proceeds to improve our lives. Karen and I have the baby coming after Christmas, and we want to take a vacation before then, so the money from the house would make a real difference. Plus, Karen wants to buy into her father's business as a kind of investment. Again, that requires money.”
Barely even registering a word he's saying, I keep my eyes fixed on the dresser, and I swear the face has become even clearer. A moment later, as if to prove that it's real, the eyes blink.
“This can't be happening,” I whisper, even though my heart is beating faster than ever. “This is...”
My voice trails off.
“Paula?” Dougie continues, before sighing yet again. “I think -”
He stops, and I'm vaguely aware of Karen's voice whispering something in
the background.
“That's right,” he adds, sounding a little more confident. “Paula, we've made this decision with your best interests in mind. For the sake of your mental and physical health, we -”
“I'll call you back,” I reply, cutting the call and quickly opening the camera app. Dougie tries to call back, but I reject the attempt, and then I raise the phone and take a photo of the reflected face in the dresser, so that I have evidence. A moment later, a text message from Dougie appears on the screen, telling me that I'm being immature and selfish.
I wait, with my eyes still fixed on the distant face, as the storm continues to swirl outside.
“Dad?” I whisper finally, although the word catches a little in my throat.
I need to be louder.
“Dad?” I call out.
No reply. The face simply continues to stare at me.
“Dad!” I say yet again, this time almost shouting as I feel tears in my eyes. “Dad, is that you? Are you...”
My voice trails off.
This can't be happening.
Finally, I toss the photo albums aside and scramble to my feet, hurrying through to the hallway and into the dining room. By the time I get there, I've lost sight of the reflection in the dresser, but I quickly look past the table and over toward the spot where Dad must have been standing. I head over to take a look, but there's no sign of him. Turning, however, I see the wood-burner reflected in the dresser's glass panel, so I'm certain Dad must have been standing right here in order for us to be able to see one another.
“Dad?” I call out, trying but failing to stay calm.
I wait a moment, before rushing through to the kitchen and then to the hallway.
“Dad!” I yell, looking up the stairs.
