We Are All Lost

The Old White Farmhouse With Blue Shutters

Ghosts don't exist. At least that's what she reasures herself as she signs the legal document. Aubrey, a high school music teacher, never would have predicted that she could afford her own house.

Especially at just thirty two, only having expected buying a house, after the long ache of saving her little earnings that would have eventually...hopefully, paid off.

But when she found herself divorced and in need of a place to live, she found this one. She got some alimony by way of her former husband who was from old money. So, ok, she had some money. Not a lot, but enough to buy the house standing in front of her. It was a little worse for wear, some windows broken, the front porch rotting in a couple places. There was no hot water on the second floor. But that was okay, she could just shower quickly until she got the pipes fixed.

It was charming, a small three story farmhouse, set back quite a ways from the road. It was white, so pale in fact, it reminded her of when she was little. It was a hobby of hers to scare her little sister at night, pretending to be a ghost, by hiding under her mother's stark white bed sheets.

The eggshell colored house, which was now what she was calling it, because of how fragile it looked suddenly. Like her. She smiled sadly. Then sighed. She would be ok, she really would, she promised herself, unaware it was an empty promise and not hers to make.

The old house was beautiful, in a charming sort of way, the way that age makes some things even more appealing than if they were new. She didn't like new. Not anymore. She used to love change but now, well, now, it meant leaving her husband of seven years, meant packing all her things and moving far away. But this was her choice, for her, there was no other way.

On what was her new home, or more so what will be her new home, there were pretty blue shutters on every window. Some shutters the paint was chipping off. She was kidding herself, most shutters had paint chipping off. But that was an easy fix, one day of painting in the summer heat and it would look good as new.

The old house had a spacious yellow tiled kitchen with plenty of natural light (natural light being something she always dreamed about having in her perfect kitchen,  the creamy butter tiles... a plus).

It had a lovely porch swing in the screened in back porch, which she thought would be perfect for being mesmerized by lightning bugs every warm night. The most exciting part of the house was the whimsical overgrown garden, lined with old rose bushes. There were a few boxed in beds for vegetables. This she was excited for. She didn't have a good history with caring for plants. Her husband, or ex husband, now, always teased her about this and she vainly hoped she could prove him wrong.

There were four bedrooms. A guest room on the first floor. Two on the second. And fourth, the attic, that had been converted into a finished room sometime during the house's long procession of owners.

Her room, on the second floor, was gorgeous. Cherry floorboards and a soft shade of lilac covered the walls, why she felt called to make it her room. The other reason she felt a presence there. She had always been able to feel... presences. Ever since she was a girl. But this presence felt safe, not malevolent. So it didn't bother her. This was her room. And that was that.

Finally, her favorite aspect of her new home: no neighbors. The house was no doubt deep in the countryside, surrounding fields dotted with old oak trees, Spanish moss hanging from every branch. The air hummed with late summer humidity and the familiar, comforting drone of the cicadas.

The old house was built sometime in the early twentieth century, meaning, before even the nearby town became a town. She was glad. She liked her solitude. This, had always been her preference, though even more so recently, when she found her husband in bed with their dog trainer, of all people. She let him keep the dog, since he must have "cared so much" about Rocky's manners.

That was a little over a month ago. Aubrey had stayed at her younger sister's house, who was a pilates instructor. Most mornings when Aubrey awoke Shannon had been long gone, teaching classes beginning at six am, for those enthusiasts who needed to get in exercise before their workday. This was never Aubrey, (even before her life fell apart).

It was summer, and Aubrey was a teacher, meaning she was able to sleep in as long as she'd like. Which, more recently, had been long. Most mornings she'd have her cup of green tea around ten. Then cry. Take a shower. Then cry.

She'd have "breakfast", though by then it was usually around noon. She loved breakfast foods. It was her favorite meal of the day. So although she slept through most of the morning she went all out. Of late, her go to meal had been baked oats, with blackberry compote she made from the plump berries she had plucked straight from the overbearing bush in her sister's side yard.

Around eleven, she'd force herself out of the house, when all she really wanted to do was lay in bed, in the fetal position, curtains drawn.

She topped off her creation, with brown sugar. She was a good cook, intuitive in a way that doesn't appeal to those who follow recipes but this she was humble about, never bragging about the gift that came naturally to her, like a professional baseball pitcher throwing a ball..

It was more of a dessert than breakfast, but she didn't care. She had already lost eleven pounds since her lovely "discovery".

"Breakfast", she usually followed up with another good, long cry. After, a nap would be in order, until her sister came home around four thirty.

Her life was pitiful and she knew it. When she had picked up the newspaper one afternoon there it was; the house. The listing, surprisingly, was actually affordable. It was almost too perfect. She knew it probably was. She put down the paper and sighed. When had her life become so dismal? She'd given herself enough pity already, she suddenly decided. Why should she let that horrible man ruin her life? She picked the paper back up and looked at the listing again. Before she knew it she had picked up her phone and started dialing the number below.

The realtor, grinning at her from the paper, picked up on the second ring. That was fast, she thought to herself. "Hi, my name's Audrey," she heard herself say into her cell, in a cheery voice that didn't at all sound like herself. "I'm calling because," Audrey gulped, then cleared her throat. "actually, I'd love to tour the house"

Fast forward three weeks and here she was; with Amanda, the realtor, who was actually really sweet, placing the keys in Aubrey's palm.

"Enjoy the house" Amanda said, simply, smiling a smile that can only belong to a realtor. One that had just made a sale they thought they could never make.

"I know I will" Audrey smiled back, ready to start the next chapter of her life.