Myth

by Terri Todosey

  As he began to climb the old creaky stairs he heard the door chimes ring.

  “Now, who could that be at this hour?”

  Whether it was the milkman collecting or just some kids playing tricks, it was no wonder that Alfred who was easily distracted never did close the rift.

  Chapter Two

  A Hundred Years Pass

  “Breakfast is ready!” My mom seemed to know exactly how to project her voice so that it would properly reverberate up the stairs and into my room. My room had been pink for as long as I can remember. I hated the colour pink. I was promised a room makeover for my sixteenth birthday over a year ago, but that was before my dad was laid off. And so the old vinyl wallpaper smothered in flowery pink hearts continued to cage me in pre-pubescence.

  My drawers remained stuffed with last year’s clothes and there was little chance I’d see new ones, unless by some miracle the town’s truck plant re-opened and my dad was called back to work. More likely, I’d be committing fashion suicide in the fall, among other offences.

  Luckily, the start of school was still six weeks away and I clung to summer and the ease of isolation. Throwing on an old grey t-shirt I grabbed my knapsack and delved into my secret drawer looking for my favourite roller ball pen. It wrote more smoothly than other pens, so I kept it near my diary in the hope that it would miraculously embellish my monotonous entries.

  Success. I smiled, finding it lodged between some beat-up skate trucks and a nine-month old Seventeen magazine that I had scavenged during my last trip to the doctor’s office. I quickly tucked the pen into the front pocket of my knapsack and grabbed my cell phone from my night table. I had an older phone with a pay-as-you-go plan that my weekly allowance barely paid for, but I justified the cost knowing it was my only lifeline to my friends and my sanity. There was a text from

  Justin:u gonna be there 2day?

  I quickly typed a response.

  Tali::) yeh, c u there?

  Justin had been my best friend since kindergarten. Sharing a love for sci-fi movies, an eclectic taste in music, skate board parks and any excuse for an adventure, we were inseparable. Our perilous escapades often got us both into trouble, though I always fare the worst, having ridiculously strict parents.

  ‘Strict’ comes from the Latin word ‘strictus’ meaning ‘tighten, or drawn tight’ and there were days when I was squeezed so tight, I thought my head was going to pop off.

  Waiting for a response from Justin I glanced down at my gerbil’s cage. “You guys need some food I see.” Tossing the phone onto my bed, I reached for the plastic bag below my desk and took out a small handful of sunflower seeds. The wire door rattled as I unclipped the latch and spilled out the seed into their small green dish. I sat for a moment as Max and Hiccup woke from the noise and stretched their tiny arms out in front of them. They tottered sleepily out of their nest of pine shavings to investigate.

  My phone dinged and I latched the cage door shut.

  Justin:yea!:D just got back last night.

  I typed.

  Tali:shweeeet!

  Justin had been away at music camp, so I hadn’t seen him since school ended for the summer. We had both gone to music camp for one week every summer since we were twelve, as it was the only camp free from dangerous sports that my parents could agree upon, and it became our thing. Justin played the drums and I dabbled a bit with keyboards, but with my dad laid off, my parents couldn’t afford to send me, so I had regrettably stayed home this year and was dying to hear all about it.

  “Naphtali Jacobson!” The sharp voice of my Mom startled me, as she now stood in the doorway of my room looking frazzled. I could tell she was angry because she called me by my full name. My mom was the only one who ever used my full name, even though I perpetually told her that I preferred just Tali. Whatever gave my parents reason to torture me with an awkward old name was not nearly as disturbing as the meaning of the name itself. It means, ‘my struggle’ according to babynamewizard.com which was a bit of a buzzkill considering there were plenty of more popular names they could have chosen, with meanings such as smart or beautiful. I would have even settled for something that meant loved one.

  “What on earth is taking you so long?” she continued with her hands now on her hips.

  Apparently, I fulfilled my name regularly.

  “And why do you let your room get so unruly?”

  I shrugged. After all, it’s not as though she was actually looking for an answer, or the truthful reply that I had opted to go to the skateboard park instead of cleaning my room would satisfy her.

  “How do you expect to survive living on your own if you can’t even keep your room clean? You have GOT to start abiding by my rules.”

  Rules - Have I mentioned she has a lot of those? Thankfully I only have one year left of high school before I’m off to college to write my own set of rules.

  “Breakfast is getting cold. Now come downstairs and eat.”

  “Fine.” I tossed the phone into my knapsack, threw it over my shoulder and thundered down the stairs to the kitchen.

  My younger brother Rylan had already made a mess of the breakfast table; scattering Cheerios and toothpicks around himself as he had begun to build what looked like a weak attempt at an Eiffel tower replica. Dad’s head was buried in the newspaper as usual, scanning through the petty career section of the classifieds.

  “So glad you could join us for breakfast,” he said without looking up.

  “Not that hungry anyway,” I replied under my breath. But, like every morning, I sat down at the table to pick at my food.

  “Hey Tali, how many Cheerios do you think are in a box?” Rylan asked with far too wide a smile for this early in the morning.

  “Don’t know, don’t care,” I responded dryly.

  “Bet ya five bucks you’ll never guess,” he persisted. “I’ll even give you ten guesses,” he urged, knowing the odds were in his favour.

  If there was a gift my brother had been blessed with, it was in making money with the knowledge of those odds. Annoying me was just the by-product.

  “I have no idea – a couple thousand maybe?” I looked over the scattered pile. “Who cares?”

  “Is that your guess?” he asked.

  “I’m NOT guessing!” my voice rose in frustration.

  “Hey Mom, you want to give it a go?” he glanced her way.

  “Not today honey. I’ve got to get over to the new school before everyone else shows up or I’ll never get any good photos,” she replied, lacing up her shoes.

  “Dad?” Rylan’s voice was still filled with optimism.

  “Not sure buddy,” he said, picking one up off the table and tossing it into his mouth.

  “Well,” piped in Rylan regardless of our lack of interest. “It depends on whether you get the family size, or a regular box like this one.” He glanced my way to see if I was the least bit curious to know this arbitrary fact. I was.

  “So how many then?” I asked impassively.

  “Four thousand, eight hundred and fifty-six,” he smiled. “But because the boxes are filled by weight, I would have given it to you give or take a hundred.”

  “Any news from the union?” mom asked, grabbing her camera bag off the computer hutch. She had remained hopeful the new Dakota Draft truck would be assembled in our neighbouring city Darlington, forcing the auto plant to rehire the thousands laid off, including my dad.

  “Still in negotiations,” dad replied. “But looks promising with the province’s recent tax incentives.”

  “Hey, is that my write up of the mansion?” mom leaned in to take a look.

  Dad flipped the paper over, revealing the headline Three Maple Grove Is New Home for Lockhart High on the front page of the Community Living section. Directly above it was a black and white photo of an old stone mansion covered heavily in vines.

 
Mom was a photo journalist hired by the town to photograph and journal the transformation of the mansion - one of the oldest buildings in town - into an updated and fully functioning high school - the first in Lockhart.

  Up until now, high school students had needed to take a bus to Darlington to go to school. It was a ride I always hated, bouncing around on the hard vinyl seats and being crammed in a bus for half an hour each way. ‘Ugh’, just remembering it made me sick. But this year, I’d be able to longboard to school in less than fifteen minutes – only a few minutes longer than my trip to grade school.

  “Did they say anything about it being haunted?” I asked, hopeful it was more than just a rumour.

  “Haunted?” Dad peered at me over the paper. “Now where did you get an idea like that?”

  “It’s what everyone’s saying!”

  “Everyone?” sighed Dad.

  “Have you not seen how creepy that place looks? Apparently the old mad man who used to live in the house now haunts it. Tina Rigsby swears she’s seen his face in the window.”

  “I thought you didn’t get along with Tina?”

  “I don’t,” I sighed and looked at my mom. “Please tell me you know something about the haunting.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard all the rumours, but I think they’re just that,” she replied. “Besides, we hardly know anything about the original owner because the town hall had no land transfer records on the estate and the little bit of information I could find was that the owner was a wealthy individual who owned some sort of import export business back the late 1800’s. There’s no record of the owner’s death either, but the local historian believes that the estate has been vacant for over a century. It’s pretty fascinating inside, filled with antiques. It’s like a time capsule, but I haven’t seen any ghosts.”

  “Can I see the pictures?” I asked, hopeful I’d see something she missed.

  “Maybe tonight,” she replied. “I’ve got plenty more rooms to photograph before everyone else shows up today. I don’t know how they expect me to photograph the place if they don’t give me adequate time to do it properly,” she grumbled, packing the last few items into her camera bag and zipping it up. “And if you’re coming to help out today Tali, I don’t want you meddling in rooms where you shouldn’t be and being a hindrance more than a help.” Grabbing her tripod she stopped and looked at me. “Do you hear me?”

  “Yes,” I replied through gritted teeth disguised as a smile.

  “Good,” she said, opening the front door, just as my longboard that had been leaning against the door frame fell down and nearly tripped her. “Not exactly the best place to leave this Tali,” she said flatly, as she picked it up and moved it out of her way. “Do you know how many kids get hurt on these things? Not to mention they’re a horrible road hazard for people trying to get to work. And what did I tell you about choosing the right kind of sport for your heart condition?”

  “I’m supposed to get some exercise,” I stated.

  “Yes, but not the kind that could put you in danger if you pass out! Harold, can you please talk some sense into her? And make sure she eats something. She looks like she’s going to fade away to nothing,” she said finally leaving and closing the door behind her.

  Having been born with a congenital heart defect has not been half as challenging as trying to convince my mom that I was okay. REALLY! I’d get the odd flutter in my heart and sure I get tired easily, but I took my pills daily and hadn’t fainted in over a year. I wanted to try more sports, especially snowboarding and swimming, but the only sports my mom deemed safe for me to do were walking and yoga.

  ‘You could pass out and break a leg, or worse - drown!’ she’d say. I technically wasn’t supposed to skateboard either, but after I had done it behind their backs all of last summer without any incident, Dad finally convinced Mom that it was probably doing more good than bad if it was getting me to exercise regularly. They made me promise to stay off the roads which was a ridiculous rule if you asked me. They had no idea that it was way more dangerous doing an ollie off the ramp at the skateboard park than it would ever be riding on the road. But Justin and I decided to save her the stress and worry by keeping that part to ourselves.

  Even with all my mom’s worries and rules, it was difficult not to get excited over the prospect of the day ahead. There wasn’t a student or resident of Lockhart that didn’t want to go beyond the wrought iron gates and peak inside the solemn, quiet old building that had overlooked the town in mystery for years.

  “I’ve eaten most of my breakfast, can I go now?” I smiled at my dad, cold eggs still lingering in my mouth. Even with ketchup, they were unwilling to go down.

  “Fine, but don’t tell your mother I didn’t force you to eat more, and make sure you take your meds before you go.”

  —

  The hard rubber tires of my longboard chattered as I turned onto the worn cobblestone circular drive. It was only eight forty-seven in the morning, but the heat beating down from the July sun made it feel like noon.

  For years I had bused past this place on my way to school wondering what lay behind the tall, arched gateway. The mansion sat high on the hill in the distance. Unkept over the years, the vines had crept up over its walls and windows making the home look strangely alive, as though slithering snakes had morphed it into Medusa’s head.

  How often I had imagined climbing the tall wrought iron gates and sneaking up through the long grass to peek inside. Once, on a dare, I had climbed half way up the gate before being spotted by Mrs. Spinck, a nosy neighbour from across the street and the end to my first and only attempt at actually entering the grounds. Weathered and sturdy, the mansion remained at a distance watching us, as though waiting for some brave traveler to stop by.

  I can’t imagine it ever anticipated receiving as many visitors as today. The heavy bolt holding the tall iron gates closed had been cut and the yard was already full of vehicles. It was as though I was attending a family reunion or school picnic - much more inviting, but far less exciting.

  Kicking up my board, I grabbed hold of it and ran up the uneven driveway. The cicadas were noisier than usual and the grasshoppers flew in every direction. Suddenly, a car that had been parked in the lane-way opened its door directly in front of me, slamming me to a sudden stop.

  “Oh, pardon me,” came a robust voice from within the large black, shiny car. It was Daniel Sloan, the town’s Mayor. He was a short, plump, balding man whose beefy legs bowed as he stood up. I recognized him immediately from the pictures I’d seen in the paper. He seemed to be in the news almost weekly, cutting the ribbon at the opening of our new Recreation Centre, holding a baby at a charity drive, shaking hands with someone important. He shut the car door and began his ascent up the long driveway towards the double front doors. Walking beside him, I found it difficult not to stare, as beads of sweat quickly broke out over his shiny head and drizzled into his eyes causing him to blink.

  “Whew! It’s a hot one today,” his pudgy hand fetched a cotton hanky from his vest pocket and mopped his brow.

  “Yup,” I said, and breaking my trance I picked up my pace to a fast walk and easily passed him before I reached the front doors.

  The doors were much larger than they appeared from outside the gate. Made of solid wood, they towered over me with equally large brass doorknobs that made my hands look tiny when I took hold of them, but a gentle twist was all that was needed for the doors to gracefully swing open.

  I couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed by the cluttered and busy entrance inside. There was a whole bunch of people moving through the many rooms and corridors. People wearing hard hats and construction boots. Some carrying boxes down one corridor and then others down another, loading and unloading, moving furniture, sweeping, cleaning and dusting. There were other people walking around with clipboards and pens, telling everyone what to do and where to do it, their hands point
ing here and there and orchestrating it all.

  It was a stunning entranceway, even with the dust and rubble that masked the colourful floor tiles; I smiled knowing it was less than two months away when I’d be entering this place daily for my last year of high school.

  “Morning Tali!”

  I immediately recognized Justin’s mom, Ms. Littner, a small woman whose thick-framed glasses always seemed too heavy for her face. She was carrying an ornately framed oil painting almost as large as herself.

  “Morning Ms. Littner,” I replied.

  The ‘Ms.’ had been a ‘Mrs.’ until Justin’s dad died about five years ago. A brain tumour the size of a plum was to blame and less than a year after discovering it he was gone, leaving Justin at the age of twelve. Barely a teen, Justin had been forced grow up overnight and become the man of the house. His mom said it was God’s perfect timing for him to go, not hers, and she somehow found peace in that. I thought it was just a religious excuse to cover death’s horrible fate.

  “If God’s so great why doesn’t he let us choose when we want to die?” I asked Justin at the funeral.

  “Cause that would be suicide,” he said straightly.

  Then Mom scolded me and took me home early and we haven’t talked about his dad’s death since.

  Justin seemed to fare well enough, though who’s to say whether his life is better or worse for having gone through something like that. Ms. Littner had not remarried and Justin remained her main priority. She took him everywhere, which was a bit of a drag as it often interfered with our plans to hang out, but it was working in our favour today.

  “Where’s Justin?” I asked.

  “Not sure. He walked here with Emily,” she said.

  “Emily?”

  “Didn’t you meet her at camp?”

  “No, I didn’t go this year,” I said dryly.

  “Oh that’s right,” she said. “It turns out she just moved into the area and will be going to school with you both in the fall. She plays piano like you! You’re going to love her.”