build.
Stepping into the room, he couldn't help but smile as he saw that bright, patterned wallpaper had been put up, featuring pictures of animals and flowers. Somewhere over the past twenty years, the room had been turned into a nursery, and when he looked down at the spot where he'd found his grandmother's body, he realized that there were four soft indentations in the new carpet, tell-tale signs that a crib had only recently been taken out. He headed over to the window and slid it open, letting some air in, before turning to look back around at the room.
He waited.
Silence.
“Gran?” he said out loud. He knew he was being foolish, but he couldn't help himself, not now he felt so certain that he was alone. For the past twenty years, he'd worried that she was still in the house, still waiting for him, but now the idea seemed preposterous. In fact, he was starting to think that he'd spent two decades building himself up to an event that was now not going to deliver a damn thing. He'd been plotting to buy the house, telling himself that he could finally work out whether his grandmother's spirit lingered, and it had never occurred to him that he'd one day get back and find that it really was just a house.
Just some walls and floors and ceilings, and empty space in-between.
No ghost.
“Gran?” he said again, allowing himself a faint smile. He made his way back to the door and then turned to look down at the spot where he'd found her. “Gran, are you here?”
No answer.
“Hello?” he called out. “Anyone? If you're around, give me a sign. Rattle a door, or bump against the wall.”
He waited.
Nothing.
“I guess not,” he muttered, feeling a little foolish. Still, he remembered what it had been like twenty years ago, when he'd been left alone in the house and he'd started to hear sounds. Scratches on the walls, whispers around the corners... He'd long known that there was a chance he'd simply been an impressionable kid, but he'd told himself he couldn't have imagined everything that had happened. Now, however, in the cold light of day he felt increasingly certain that the whole thing had been entirely in his head. His grandmother had died, and that had been the end of it. The only thing she'd left behind, besides her body, had been the stain on the carpet, and now even that was gone.
Still, the trip wouldn't be a total waste. There was one other thing he still had to do while he was in town.
***
“I'm sorry I didn't come back sooner,” he whispered, looking down at his mother's grave. “I mean, I always knew I'd come and see you again eventually, but...”
He paused, feeling slightly foolish for saying the words out loud, before crouching down and setting a bunch of yellow roses on the grass, just ahead of the gravestone. His mother had always loved yellow roses, or at least that was what he'd been told by his father. He didn't remember enough to be certain.
“Life just got in the way,” he continued. “Can you believe that? I never used to have much of a life at all. Just sitting around, watching TV and writing and reading, and occasionally going to the shops with Gran. It's not like school was exactly fun, either, but... Well, I guess I shouldn't complain.”
He began to rearrange the roses, before realizing that they were fine as they were.
“Do you remember how you used to write stories and then read then to me?” he asked. “I know you always wanted to be a writer, but... That's what I do now, can you believe it? You're the one who made me want to tell stories, and now I tell the kind of stories that other people like turning into big, blockbuster movies. You'd probably hate them.” He paused, remembering the days when, as a child, he used to sit on his mother's while she read the latest story she'd come up with. “I wish I still had some of your stuff,” he told her. “Just one of your stories would be enough, but... Then again, I don't even have a photo of you. I remember
Stepping into the room, he couldn't help but smile as he saw that bright, patterned wallpaper had been put up, featuring pictures of animals and flowers. Somewhere over the past twenty years, the room had been turned into a nursery, and when he looked down at the spot where he'd found his grandmother's body, he realized that there were four soft indentations in the new carpet, tell-tale signs that a crib had only recently been taken out. He headed over to the window and slid it open, letting some air in, before turning to look back around at the room.
He waited.
Silence.
“Gran?” he said out loud. He knew he was being foolish, but he couldn't help himself, not now he felt so certain that he was alone. For the past twenty years, he'd worried that she was still in the house, still waiting for him, but now the idea seemed preposterous. In fact, he was starting to think that he'd spent two decades building himself up to an event that was now not going to deliver a damn thing. He'd been plotting to buy the house, telling himself that he could finally work out whether his grandmother's spirit lingered, and it had never occurred to him that he'd one day get back and find that it really was just a house.
Just some walls and floors and ceilings, and empty space in-between.
No ghost.
“Gran?” he said again, allowing himself a faint smile. He made his way back to the door and then turned to look down at the spot where he'd found her. “Gran, are you here?”
No answer.
“Hello?” he called out. “Anyone? If you're around, give me a sign. Rattle a door, or bump against the wall.”
He waited.
Nothing.
“I guess not,” he muttered, feeling a little foolish. Still, he remembered what it had been like twenty years ago, when he'd been left alone in the house and he'd started to hear sounds. Scratches on the walls, whispers around the corners... He'd long known that there was a chance he'd simply been an impressionable kid, but he'd told himself he couldn't have imagined everything that had happened. Now, however, in the cold light of day he felt increasingly certain that the whole thing had been entirely in his head. His grandmother had died, and that had been the end of it. The only thing she'd left behind, besides her body, had been the stain on the carpet, and now even that was gone.
Still, the trip wouldn't be a total waste. There was one other thing he still had to do while he was in town.
***
“I'm sorry I didn't come back sooner,” he whispered, looking down at his mother's grave. “I mean, I always knew I'd come and see you again eventually, but...”
He paused, feeling slightly foolish for saying the words out loud, before crouching down and setting a bunch of yellow roses on the grass, just ahead of the gravestone. His mother had always loved yellow roses, or at least that was what he'd been told by his father. He didn't remember enough to be certain.
“Life just got in the way,” he continued. “Can you believe that? I never used to have much of a life at all. Just sitting around, watching TV and writing and reading, and occasionally going to the shops with Gran. It's not like school was exactly fun, either, but... Well, I guess I shouldn't complain.”
He began to rearrange the roses, before realizing that they were fine as they were.
“Do you remember how you used to write stories and then read then to me?” he asked. “I know you always wanted to be a writer, but... That's what I do now, can you believe it? You're the one who made me want to tell stories, and now I tell the kind of stories that other people like turning into big, blockbuster movies. You'd probably hate them.” He paused, remembering the days when, as a child, he used to sit on his mother's while she read the latest story she'd come up with. “I wish I still had some of your stuff,” he told her. “Just one of your stories would be enough, but... Then again, I don't even have a photo of you. I remember
Similar Books
