Memories

This is a story I just wrote, still in the editing stage, so don’t be too critical. Any comments are welcome. Enjoy!

Memories

The massive Victorian house dominated the street, shaming the cheery, friendly houses surrounding it. Little children frolicked in their sprinklers, as their parents kept a close eye on their designer clothing-clad kids. All the other houses seemed to shy away from the mansion, recoiling at the boarded up windows, the heavy chain wrapped around the doorknob, the vacant driveway. No one went there anymore.

      Elliott stood on the doorstep of the house, looking up at its weathered brown, ornate siding. Some of the wood had chipped off here and there, and the dark paint was peeling. He wanted to turn and run, to hide from the reality of his life. But Elliot knew he had to go forward. He slid the rusty skeleton key into the padlock, lifted the chain from the knob, and opened the door.

      Even though it was morning, Elliott felt like he was entering a haunted mansion at night. Tiny shards of light escaped from the edges of the plywood boards covering the windows, but that wasn’t enough to illuminate the front hallway. Taking out his crowbar, Elliott wrenched the board from the window, letting it clatter to the floor in a shower of golden rays.

      Elliot moved forward. The floorboards creaked as he made his way into the kitchen, passing a delicate blue vase filled with dead lilies.  As if he’d flipped on a television set, Elliot’s vision became obscured and he saw a new scene before him.

      “Happy birthday, honey,” Elliot smiled. The woman standing in front of him was clutching a package wrapped carefully in orange paper. Her hair fell almost to her shoulders, and was the same fiery color. She unfurled the paper, covering a plain cardboard box. Opening it, a wide smile spread across her face.

      “Oh, Elliot. It’s beautiful,” she breathed.

      Like a bubble bursting, Elliot returned to reality, running his thumb along the rim of the vase before moving on.

      The kitchen was old-fashioned, not covered in wood paneling or flashy laminate as the styles demanded back then. It looked older, like something out of a Jane Austen novel. Dark wood floors, carpeted in a layer of dust, formed the base of the room. A white refrigerator, looking slightly out of place, stood in the corner, attached to a long countertop stretching across the side of the room. A wood-burning stove broke the uniform line, the compartment filled with coals and ashes, the remains of embers that had died long ago. Elliot peeked into a cabinet. A can of Western Family New Potatoes fell out of the overstuffed shelf, almost hitting Elliot in the head. I wonder what the expiration date on this is, he wondered. He bent down to pick up the can, twisting it in his hands to find the small printed date. “Use by July 8, 1974.” Elliot wondered why the can was still there, as the potatoes had expired a year before it happened. He shuddered.

      Shaking his head, Elliot placed the can back on the shelf, examining the other contents. Boxes of breadcrumbs, Tupperware containers full of Maggie’s signature granola, and expired jars of homemade pickles sat neglected and covered in dust. A few dead bugs lay along the inside of the cabinet, victims of the bug trap they had placed there so many years ago. Feeling nostalgic, Elliot took out a Tupperware box and opened the lid. He shoveled in a handful of his wife’s granola; he didn’t care if it had gone bad. Elliot breathed in the faint vanilla aroma, now mixed with underlying flavors of mold and decay.

      “Mom, get some more bread at the store?” Emily called. She twirled her golden hair, skipping into the kitchen. Her flared, embroidered jeans matched the long, woolen sweater she wore, reaching her knees.

      “Are you going to school like that?” Maggie asked, frowning at her daughter’s attire, as she opened the oven to retrieve a pan full of roasted nuts and oats.

      “Oh, mom. It’s what everyone’s wearing now. Oh, please, can I?” Emily begged, her face fallen in disappointment.

      “I think she looks quite like Farrah Fawcett,” Elliot commented, glancing at Maggie to indicate his approval.

      “Actually, I was trying to channel Camille Keaton, but I guess it works,” She grinned, grabbing a handful of granola, fresh from the hot pan. “Ow!” Emily cried, scattering almond slivers all over the floor.

      Elliot glanced instinctively toward the wooden boards of the kitchen floor, now empty except for the layer of dust coating them like a rug. He sighed. Maybe, he thought, this was a bad idea. I shouldn’t have come. But something deep inside Elliot’s mind told him to keep going. Taking a deep breath, lip quivering, he mounted the stairs.

      Tiny droplets of red stood out from the snow-colored carpeting on the floor. The specks led up to a large pool of burgundy, dried long ago, at the entrance to Emily’s room. Elliot turned her doorknob, the tears already welling up in his eyes.

      The salmon-pink walls of the room were covered in posters of David Cassidy and Warren Beatty. The single bed, pushed against the side of the room, was covered in a pale purple comforter and adorned with a patchwork quilt, lovingly crafted by Maggie. Elliot tried to ignore the large rust-red blob on the fabric, similar to the one on the carpet outside. The boards covering the white-trimmed windows had little halos of light around them, glowing just like Emily’s blonde hair used to. Elliot allowed a tear to escape his eye, sliding down his nose, leaving a trail of glistening water along his face. He saw the small stuffed bear that Emily had had since she was a baby, now covered in the same reddish color as the blotch on her blanket.

      Suddenly, Elliot began to sob. His tears showered the teddy bear, moistening the blood it was covered in. He clutched the bear to his chest, shuddering and swaying up and down as he cried. Where are you, Em? He wanted to shout. He wanted to hold her in his arms, just like he had when she was young. He wanted to tell her that everything was fine, and she wasn’t dead. He so desperately wanted it to be true.

      Standing up, still clinging to the bear, Elliot trailed meekly out of the room. He placed his hand on the door across from Emily’s, feeling the white glossy paint on his fingertips. He brushed his fingers against the doorknob, opening the door.

      Splashes of burgundy met his eyes. They were everywhere—on the walls, spattered across the bed, completely covering the crib. Red droplets danced, taunting Elliot, across Derek’s tiny baby pillow, congregating in the center of the blue crib pad. Chunks of orange hair littered the massive bed, and a pair of bloody scissors lay directly in the middle. Elliot had forgotten how horrible the scene was. But it was all coming back to him now, the day he returned from his business trip, carry-on bag in tow, his passport freshly stamped in Switzerland.

      “Maggie?” He called. His words echoed through the silent house. “Emily?” He heard Derek’s faint crying from upstairs, and rushed to him. The room looked exactly as it did now, thirty years after the ordeal. Maggie’s lifeless body lay sprawled across the floor, and Derek—poor, tiny Derek—was whimpering in his crib. Blood was gushing out from a large gash in his head. Elliot rushed to his son, scooping Derek up into his arms. He watched in horror as the baby’s cries grew softer and his body froze, rigid. Still holding Derek, Elliot had gone into Emily’s room. He sank to the floor at the sight of the carnage, coming out of his shock, sobbing just as he had done not five minutes ago.

      Elliot shook his head. It was happening to him all over again, the horrible flashbacks, the sickening scent of blood, the sleepless nights spent tossing and turning in his new apartment’s single bed. The police never found a lead or a motive, and passed the case off in a matter of weeks, blaming the murders on some crazed serial killer or a confused, homicidal lunatic running rampant through the town. He let the bear fall to the ground without so much as a thud, its color blending in with the stylized crimson splatters on the carpet.

      Elliott, He heard a voice whisper, soft as the wind. Why did you go? Maggie’s voice was joined by a higher, younger pitch. Daddy, help, help, help. Daddy, help, Emily cried melodiously, her pain mingling with fear in a desperate song of sorrow. The sound of a baby wailing came through, punctuating his daughter’s song in a cacophony of horror.

      “Stop it!” Elliot shouted, the blood draining from his face. “I’m sorry!” Then, quieter, “I’m so, so sorry. Oh god. Oh my god,” he whispered. Blinking back tears, Elliot stood up. “Why did I even come here in the first place? Nothing good could ever come from this. I’m so stupid. Moving back here, coming to clean up and stay in this house, was one of the worst ideas I’ve ever had!” He yelled to the empty house. There was no one there. They were all gone.

      “What should I do, Maggie? I don’t know what to do,” He cried, reduced to tears once more. He imagined his wife beside him, her hand on his back, her flame-colored hair brushing against his cheek. He wondered what she would say.

      “Elliot,” She’d murmur soothingly, patting his hair. “Don’t do something that’ll traumatize you for the rest of your life. But don’t forget us,”

      “I’ll never forget you,” He whispered. 

      Elliot stepped back, dropping the sponge, admiring his handiwork. The painted crib now glinted in the sunlight, it was so clean. All traces of blood had been removed from the pristine bedroom. Emily’s room had been cleaned with the same conviction, the bedspread freshly laundered and the teddy bear restored to its loveable state. His family may have been dead for three decades, but Elliot wasn’t going to mope around in rented apartments and motels any longer. He unzipped the large leather suitcase lying beside him, and began placing carefully folded shirts into his old dresser drawers. He felt Maggie’s hand resting on his shoulder as he straightened the room, and for the first time in ages, Elliot smiled.

      He scrubbed the house clean, ripped the boards from the windows, and buried the thick chain and padlock that used to wrap around the door. Collapsing into his favorite easy chair after a day of hard, exhausting work, Elliot slid a fat phone book into his lap. He felt the thin fragility of the pages as he turned them rapidly, scanning for painting services. New Hope Painters, read one entry. We do houses, fences, and interiors. Reasonable fees. Wood, vinyl, and brick. Your hope in painters will be restored! Elliot reached for his mobile, flipped it open with his chin, and dialed the number. He made arrangements for the painters to come the next day.

      “Have you chosen a color?” they asked.

      “Yellow,” he responded. The man on the other end tried to go into specifics: did he want sunflower? Perhaps a shade with an orange tint, or one with flaxen undertones? Elliot told them to bring him something that would make someone smile just looking at it, a color that inspired pure joy. He hung up the phone, and leaned back, pressing his feet to the clean, dust-free rug.  

      Elliot awoke to a strange scratching sound, and a loud banging coming from downstairs. He sat upright, his fingers playing nervously with the sheet.

      “Hello?” He called, his voice higher than usual. No one answered, but the banging got louder, and was joined by a high-pitched yowling sound. Elliot began to sweat. Gathering up his courage, he slid himself out of the bed, feeling the cold sting of the hardwood beneath his bare feet. He padded down the stairs, one by one, creaky sounds emanating from each old step. Elliot made his way to the back door, the doorknob slippery from his clammy fingers. He pulled open the door, like ripping off a band-aid, bracing himself for the unknown horror he thought to lie behind it. Peering through the screen door, he saw two glowing yellow balls, a black dot in the center of each. He flipped on the porch light, which cast an eerie pool of greenish light on the wooden boards of the deck. The light outlined a thin, athletic body, a thick tail, and a long, pointed snout. A greyhound.

      “Who are you?” Elliot cooed, his voice calmer, as if he was talking to a baby. He swung open the screen door, and the dog shoved his snout into Elliot’s open palm. “Oh, you are sweet. Yes, you are!” he exclaimed, feeling the velvet smoothness of the dog’s chin. He patted the greyhound on the chest, and his fingers felt an odd wetness. Elliot pulled his hand back, examining the residue that he’d felt, coming from the dog. The liquid shone like a ruby, its color as red as Emily’s teddy bear used to be. The greyhound whimpered in pain.

      “My god. Here, boy! Come on, let’s get you inside,” He called, patting his hip. The dog faithfully obeyed, following Elliot into the house. He saw the wound, a large red patch on the dog’s closely cut fur. It expanded to cover most of the massive greyhound’s long right leg.

      “Shh, it’s alright. Everything’s going to be just fine,” Elliot whispered, smoothing his hand along the dog’s back. “First off, let’s get you a name. How about…Grover?” The dog barked, his tail wagging. “You like that? Good!” Elliot left Grover for a minute, in search of the rubbing alcohol. He located the clear plastic bottle, and poured some of the contents onto a cotton ball, hoping that the liquid hadn’t lost its potency in the thirty years it had stood in the medicine cabinet. Approaching Grover, he placed the cotton ball gently on a small patch of the blood. Grover leaped back, growling.

      “Woah, boy. Don’t worry. I know it stings, but it’s better this way,” Elliot said, trying to calm the dog. He backed away, and Grover advanced, readying himself for the pain. Elliot cleaned off the wound, first with alcohol, and then with soap and water. He bound Grover’s foot with a tourniquet, cotton pads wedged under to absorb the leftover blood. Pulling out an old blanket, he arranged it on the kitchen floor, next to a bowl of water and a white box of Johnny Choo’s Lo Mein, leftover from his dinner. Grover circled the makeshift bed, and laid himself down, getting comfortable.

      “Now, that’s a good boy. We’ll see each other in the morning, okay?” Elliot dragged himself upstairs and back into bed, while the dog slumbered below him.  

      Elliot pushed his car door closed with his hip, his arms wrapped around two large brown bags. A long baguette stuck out from one, and the other was garnished with green parsley leaves, popping out like the unruly hair of a schoolboy. He gazed at his beautiful yellow house, the sunny paint just starting to chip, two years after it had been painted on.

      “Here, boy! Come on!” Elliot called, whistling loudly. The large greyhound came bounding forward, and jumped on Elliot like a puppy. Unfortunately, the massive dog knocked him over, and Elliot tumbled onto the soft grass, his face now covered in dog slobber.           

 “Stop it, Grover!” Elliot exclaimed, laughing. The dog galloped away, towards the screen door at the back of the house.           

 “You want dinner? I guess it is getting dark outside,” He said, gathering up the groceries that were strewn helter-skelter on the lawn. Strolling to the house, Elliot let his dog in. Grover ran up to his food bowl, tongue hanging out, wagging his tail rapidly. Elliot tilted the dog food bag, but no shower of kibble pellets came out.           

 “Oh no, looks like we’re all out,” Grover withdrew his tongue and dropped his tail between his legs, his eyes now melancholy. “All right, all right. You can have some of mine,” Elliot said jovially.           

Grover followed him to the large kitchen table. Elliot pulled on the white lid of the Tupperware box, prying it open. The dog put his paws up on the table, attempting to scoop the granola into his mouth, but the plastic box only scooted away, sliding down the counter. Elliot chuckled, and dropped some of the toasted nuts in two identical bowls. He placed Grover’s on the floor, and went to get some milk for his. He poured the ice-cold milk into his granola, the white liquid enveloping the crunchy cereal. Taking a huge spoonful, Elliot sighed peacefully, remembering the fun he used to have with his family. 

      “Can we get a dog?” Emily whined. “Sally has one, and Mindy just got a brand new puppy,”

      “Someday, honey, if your mother likes the idea,” Elliot said wistfully.

      “What was that, dear?” Maggie called, strolling into the kitchen, bouncing Derek in her arms. “I’d love a dog!”

      “We’ll get one as soon as I come back from Switzerland. Let’s go to the pound right when I get home,” Elliot suggested. Everyone nodded in agreement, and Emily cheered.             

 “Like it, boy?” Elliot called. Grover let out a joyful yip, jumping into the air.           

 “Me too,” he replied, his smile growing with each mouthful. He felt contented as he sat in the kitchen, surrounded by the memories of his family.

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