The air was suffocating as she stepped out of her car. She was not ready for this. It had been much too long since she had even thought of this place, and now she had to face it so suddenly.
Black heels clacked against the pavement as she hesitantly approached the desolate house. It was run down, unsightly compared to the picturesque, modern houses in its surrounds. She wondered why it hadn't been torn down or renovated. She wondered who owned it now.
Walking towards the cast-iron fence, pushing open the creaking gate, walking up the stone path overgrown with weeds pushing through the cracks; as she trod this forgotten - albeit familiar - path, she felt six again. In her little white dress with the shiny purple bow, she had been fussed over by her mother, made to look 'perfect' for the wedding. She had approached the house with flowers for the bride, her aunt - lilies, as white and pure as the dress she was wearing.
Now, as she stepped up to the old veranda with its rotted wood, her senses heightened, just as they did that day. She almost couldn't reach out and push on the door. It was ajar, as if it didn't fit within the frame properly, and it felt as if old evils were flowing out of the opening into her. Exhaling, she pushed it open, and stepped across the threshold.
It was dark, not how she remembered the place. Twenty years ago it was bright and vibrant, full of the noises of people; except for that day, when the only noises she could hear were the jazz music softly playing in the kitchen, and the creaking of the floorboards under her feet. Today the music was replaced by her heavy breathing. She trod lightly, as if she were a child sneaking out of bed. She felt like she shouldn't be here, but she knew she had to be.
She followed the same path she did twenty years ago; up the stairs and along the corridor towards her aunt's room. As she rounded into the room, she flinched. There was nothing there; the body had been taken away long ago, the blood cleaned away. The memories were almost like a dream now.
She remembered she had fallen onto the floor next to the body, pressed down on the chest, shouted at the face. She thought the dead bride was only sleeping, and she was unsure of the red dye that stained her dress when she came back up. When her grandfather had come to the house to escort the bride to her own wedding, he had found his granddaughter staring at the body with lilies in her hands, crumpled and stained similar to the little girls' dress.
The body, grotesque in that beautiful white gown soaked with red, had been stabbed seven times. She remembered because her mother had a copy of the autopsy report, and she had read it on several occasions. The weapon used was found three months later, in a field out of town; the person who committed it was found another seven. The groom, it tragically turned out.
With shaking legs she walked to the walk-in robe and pulled up the loose floorboard, using the torch that she had stored in her handbag to view the contents in the narrow space. From it she produced a dusty and battered doll and an old photograph, the smiling people within long since gone.
Hastily, she returned to her car, and gently placed her belongings in the passenger seat. They were to be placed against Estelle's grave, once Darryl's funeral was finished. She felt guilty for attending the funeral of her beloved aunt's murderer, but her appearance was less of a matter of grievance than it was a matter of closure. With a small smile, she put her foot down and drove away.
