Tricks and Tales

The room was abnormally bright, the florescent lighting almost blinding to the naked eye. A constant chill was in the air, generating a feeling of an omnipotent intruder, watching, waiting, and almost beckoning one to enter the wicked room. The force was overpowering, magnetic, and the desire to peek beyond the half-closed door overcame the fear of the unknown. A strong odor permeated the area, always lingering throughout the entire house, wafting from floor to floor, room to room, permanently present in the air.

A young boy with red hair was standing in the basement. His face was flushed a peculiar color of orange, looking ridiculous in the shiny roller skates upon his feet. He was drenched in an unidentifiable liquid from head to toe, his clothing clinging to his skin, apparently restricting his ability to move freely. I stood on the steps, riveted in my tracks, unable to move. He taunted me to come closer. My legs were paralyzed with fear, my psyche lacking logic and judgment. Scrambling toward the winding staircase, I commanded my legs to move, but I simply did not have the power. He began to edge his way nearer, his arms extended gracefully in order to steady his balance. Cringing, I backed up onto the step in my bare feet, feeling my heels pressing painfully into the hard wood. It was then that I realized that he could not harm me as long as I stayed on the step. The roller skates prevented him from traveling any further.

There was a large white porcelain table in the center of the room, tilted slightly downward at one end. From time to time, a man or woman would be lying on top of it, still and unmoving, obviously unaware of the surroundings. A white sheet carefully protected the length of their body so that only their heads could be seen, their eyes always closed tight, unnaturally, as if someone had glued them shut. Large implements lay scattered on top of the stainless steel counter top, dangerously close to teetering off the edge. My brother and I, partners in crime throughout our childhood, would steal knowing glances at each other when we invaded the room, unbeknownst to our parents. The floor was painted gunmetal gray, and scant drops of dried blood could be detected, even on the cleverly coated cement surface. Glass bottles containing a pretty pink liquid were lined up neatly on a shelf in the corner of the room; the stuff, my brother and I had eventually figured out, that gave off the pungent aroma.

A young woman with beautiful long blonde hair was floating above a tombstone. I was standing a few yards away from her, watching her hover above the grave with graceful ease, her tall frame swaying languidly in the breeze. Her deep gray eyes penetrated my own, her depth of vision almost bewitching. A hazy fog misted the bleak formidable surroundings. She could see things that I could not. Her wisdom was of great magnitude, beyond any scope of my young and uneducated mortal mind. She wore a silky white nightgown that cascaded loosely around her body, and her bare feet dangled in mid-air. The current of air kicked up, her hair and dress now billowing in the wind, while the wind speed forced my body closer to her. I struggled with all my might, and latched on to a tree branch in my path. Her face exuded warmth and sincerity, but I did not trust her. She held out her arms to me, motioning with her eyes to come to her. The wind was raging, and the rotted branch finally snapped in two. My mind screamed with terror. Silently, I tried to tell her I could not come with her, that I was incapable of living in her world. I begged her to let me go. Suddenly, the strong gusts ceased, and she disappeared before my eyes.

One day after school, sometime during my elementary years, I entered the house through the basement, something that my parents forbade us to do. The hallway leading to the morgue was shadowed, but I could see the glow of light coming from the room. A large figure was standing over the white table, and at once I recognized the hired embalmer. His head jerked upright when the closed with a heavy thud. His body jumped involuntarily, and he was more than startled by the unexpected intrusion. His eyes held mine for a moment, and I could see his body relax instantly. He was hunched over the table, dressed in a white overcoat that I recalled seeing doctors wear, his hands protected by rubber gloves that were stained. The elderly woman had fine, long white hair, and the brittle strands cascaded downward from the headrest. Her transparent face was wrinkled and worn, with pronounced blue veins protruding at the side of her temples. Her eyes and lips were closed. The smell was even more overpowering than usual, and I held my breath in order to ward off the foul odor. I stood there silently, almost mesmerized by the eerie sight before me. The embalmer gave me a reproachful glance, enough to make me flee from the scene. I ran up the steps quickly and went to the front door, the door that we were suppose to use, and prayed that he would not tell my father while I tried to catch my breath.

That night at the dinner table, I nervously scanned my father's face for disapproval. Finding none, I silently thanked the embalmer and swore to myself that I would not go near that room again.

It was a weak promise, however, that my brother and I broke on many occasions.

The forbidden territory seemed to tempt us, even provoke us, with a strong desire to know.

We would lay awake for hours in bed at night, our rooms adjacent to one another's, whispering in quiet, hushed tones, so that our parents would not hear us. Neither would admit that we were just plain terrified to go to sleep. "What was that noise?" we would shriek when we heard a thump or the rattling of the windows in the old enormous house. There was a dim light glowing in the hallway at all times; our only salvation from danger. The funeral home was located just one floor below us, and we would imagine that one of the body's could very well be coming up the stairs, slowly, covertly, to capture us, and take us with them to the place where they were kept. The scenes that we created in our young and actively vivid imaginations would make us giddy, almost hysterical, with excitement and fear. Many times, we would arise before our parents to find that one of us had joined the others' bed sometime during the night.

When we were allowed in the funeral home, my brother and I would run crazily from room to room, with our big yellow Lab chasing after us. My father would be making last minute preparations, his mind fully occupied on his duties, oblivious to our presence. Sometimes, we would badger him with endless questions.

"Dad, why isn't she breathing?" Danny would ask in a whining voice. Our father would then answer our relentless questions patiently, "Because, she is no longer with us, she is up there." And he would point upward, and we would follow his finger with our no longer innocent eyes, imagining that the woman could see us.

The questions I had asked my father were more explicit, detailed, and to the point.

"Where up there, exactly?" I would ask, pointing upward to the ceiling.

"Way up there, in heaven," he would reply, still patient.

"Can they see us?"

"Nobody knows for sure."

"Are you dead, then? Is it over forever?"

"I don't think so," he would say, a little less patient.

"Why do we die?" I would ask, becoming frightened.

"Everyone dies, it's part of life."

"Well, I'm not going to die!" I would cry then, and my mother would come downstairs and drag Danny and me upstairs, her voice rising sharply at my father for scaring us.

A gray haired old man occupied the rocking chair at the foot of the bed. He held a cigarette between his elongated fingers, the tip glowing red each time he took a drag on it. He rocked gently back and forth, while clouds of smoke drifted above him. I looked at him, blinked my eyes, but he was still there. I lay there, still and quiet, trying to will him away. His body was weak and frail, and I could see the outline of his bones that protruded beneath the flannel shirt. He wore loose dark pants, his bony knees jutting through the material, with the belt looped on the last notch. His face sagged with age and his eyebrows were dark and bushy. He stared at me, unruffled and composed, his mind trying to enter my thoughts. I was unalarmed by his presence, and continued to stare back at him. Time didn't have any meaning, and the charade lasted for what seemed like hours.

I arose the next morning, trying to recall the strange dream I had had the night before. I walked over to the rocking chair where I kept my robe, only to find that it lay in a crumpled heap on the floor. Dark ashes were scattered on the rug next to the robe.

My mother sat at the breakfast table, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Her father had passed on sometime during the night.