The Medium of Memory | ONC2020

8. The Ghost

The rain poured, drumming on the roof and pattering against the windows. It had grown so dark in the house that we lit several of the lamps and gathered up some candles as well.

Though we'd spent more time casually exploring—and cleaning up a bit as we went—I had experienced no further visions, and hadn't tried. Now we were established in the front sitting room to wait out the storm.

"It seems we aren't going anywhere for some time," Charlotte commented, peering out the windows that looked upon the porch and the front yard.

I watched the rain splashing from muddy puddles already forming in the bare ground. The horse seemed ambivalent, taking cover under the sagging roof of the old shed. I could barely make out its silhouette in the growing darkness outside.

Ambivalent. That described my own feelings as well, I realized. The storm seemed to coincide with something more oppressive about the house, yet I didn't have the urge to leave, and not just because of the pouring rain.

"There are a lot of ghosts here," I said.

"You don't mean real ghosts, do you?"

"No, I suppose not. Not really," I answered, trailing my fingers down the window pane along the path of a rivulet of water. "But they might as well be."

As we stood there, I let the sound of the rain lull me into a mild trance. And just like that, I felt that I was in my own house. I looked around at a new scene. Though the rain outside was the same, the room itself was very different. There was much of the same furniture, some of it rearranged, but there was less clutter. Missing were the stacks of papers and fabrics. Fewer tables held fewer lamps. The mantel was bare but for a single vase of fresh wildflowers.

And the younger woman I'd seen before outside, the one in the mirror, sat in the well-worn chair, sobbing softly, while a fire burned in the grate.

I gently grabbed Charlotte's arm. "Do you see her?" I whispered, pointing.

Charlotte looked. "I do!" she whispered back.

I was conscious of controlling my abilities this time, working to not let the vision go. The woman stood up, handkerchief in hand, and began walking to the piano room.

"We need to follow her," I said, still in hushed tones. Charlotte's face was pale, and I couldn't tell if it was from fear or something else. She picked up a lit candle.

We crept carefully behind the woman as she went from the piano room to the kitchen, as if we were sneaking after a real person. It took mental energy for me to hold onto this memory of her. Next to the pantry shelves, she opened a short wooden door to what could only be the root cellar.

She disappeared down into the dark entrance.

It was dark and the few stone steps were narrow. Charlotte held the candle up in front of her and the light played in sickly shadows on the stone walls around us as we took in the tiny chamber.

The woman was gone.

The cellar was barely the size of a small bedroom, and low, with hardly enough room to stand up straight. Wooden shelves lined one wall, holding only a few dusty jars and several simple candlesticks still grasping the stubs of candles. There was a rocking chair with a moth-eaten blanket draped across the back. An ornately carved wooden chest sat next to the chair, against the other wall. It was quite a striking piece of furniture to be stashed in a root cellar. I saw that something rectangular lay atop it.

"What is this place?" Charlotte whispered.

I picked up the rectangular object. It was a picture frame—the only one we'd found in the house thus far. I rubbed the dust off to reveal an old photograph of a baby, less than a year old, in a white shift. Affixed to the back of the frame was a small key.

I felt myself rocking back and forth, as if sitting in that chair, holding the frame in my hands. And I felt an intense emptiness. I knew for certain what was in the trunk.

I carefully removed the key from the back of the frame and set the photograph on the chair. "What are you—?" Charlotte began to ask, but fell silent at my serious expression.

She held the candle up as I wiggled the key in the old lock. When the mechanism finally gave, I slowly lifted the heavy lid.

Inside was a bundle of ragged cloth, yellowed with age. Out of the background buzz a new memory came to me. The sound of a woman humming a lullaby.

"What is it?" Charlotte asked, resting her hand on my shoulder to get a better look inside. At that moment, she heard it too. "Do you hear that? Someone humming?"

I didn't answer. I felt so far away from her, fixated only on the tattered parcel lying before us. Gingerly, I pulled back bits of fabric until I'd revealed the contents.

Small bones, discolored with age, peeked out from the folds of a decaying nightdress. The eye sockets were hollow wells in the skull, which seemed somehow too large for the small body.

"My God!" Charlotte gasped.

The lullaby ceased, as if my own energy had kept it going. I handed Charlotte the framed photograph of the child and flopped down into the rocking chair, exhausted.

"I think we've found the source of your haunting," I said.