Tag Archives: ghost

Miscellanea

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Miscellanea from the Lost Quarter and beyond.

Door to Door

Wisps of smoke drifted through the streets, lingering in the air on the corners. Those walking by swore they could sometimes glimpse something from the corner of their eyes. A form emerging, solid as they, but when they looked at it straight on there was only the smoke dissipating to nothing. They hurried on anyway, the air oppressive… 

I was in the midst of preparing dinner when the doorbell rang. A smiling youth waited on the other side. Do you have five minutes? I thought about saying no, but he seemed harmless enough, his eagerness and sincerity vaguely pitiful. With a motion of my hand I beckoned him inside, closing the door to keep out the smoke, so heavy on the air these last days. 

It lingered still as he sat on the chair in my living room opposite me on the couch. He reached into a bag I had not noticed and pulled forth a book. I have been given a wonderful opportunity, he declared, to travel these parts and see all the great things here. I get to call on all the wonderful people, learn about them and tell them about myself and share some wonderful news.  

He tapped a hand upon the cover, which was worn at the edges and looked as though it had spent a long time in the bag, which itself was somewhat fraying at the seams. Idyllic greenery was depicted, so vaguely it was impossible to tell where it was taken. For all I could tell it was a picture of a tree down the street zoomed in on the tangle of branches and leaves.  

We talked inconsequentially for a few minutes. He had come from the southwest to see our fine country during his summer off from school. There was much he wanted to see and do, but first he had to share his news. He asked me about myself and I told him little, keeping my answers short and letting a hint of impatience creep in, which he did not seem to notice. For he was back to the news he had to share.  

I feared I was about to be invited to join some church, but he just opened the book. It was filled with pictures with no text whatsoever. At first glance they looked, as with the cover, like stock photos that someone had taken from the internet and printed at poor resolution, for the colour was faded and none of the details were sharp. You see, he said, as he touched each one and I wanted to tell him I didn’t, but worried that would just invite more discussion. I was already regretting inviting him in. 

It seemed he was going to show me every picture in the book – there must have been over a hundred pages. I tried to interrupt him, to thank him for his time and send him on his way, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes, continuing to turn the pages and rest his fingers lightly on the image. When he did I could swear the picture changed. If there was water it flowed, if there were trees the leaves fluttered. The details became sharper and stranger. There were pine trees in what appeared to be a desert, eucalyptus atop snowy mountains, rivers flowing uphill. These were not places that existed, that could not exist.  

I looked up at him, startled and disturbed. He met my gaze. You see, he said, and nodded as though everything was evident. The smell of smoke was becoming stronger somehow and I felt lightheaded. I noticed there were stray threads and loose pieces at the seams of his shirt and pants. The shoes he’d taken off at the door had lost their heel, which I hadn’t noticed earlier. He was coming apart at the seams. 

I stood without another word and went to open the door, gesturing for him to leave. He looked at me forlornly, but I refused to meet his eyes, pointing again at the open doorway. Returning to the book, he touched another page and I was unable to resist looking. A great storm was on the horizon, a swirl of clouds moving closer and closer. There was flashes of lightning and I could swear I could hear thunder. The smell of smoke was overpowering. 

I stepped back from the door, blinking and waving my hand as though to clear the air. When I had recovered he was outside, looking at me sadly as though I had somehow failed to meet the moment. You see, he said. It sounded like a promise. 

Field Notes

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Being a record of certain phenomena found in the environs of the Lost Quarter.

Red Ribbon

He first glimpsed the sister through the trees that surrounded the Faulkenbourg Place. Since moving there it had become his habit to walk between the rows, starting from the laneway that led to the road and ending when he had circumnavigated the property and returned to the other side of the lane. The yard itself was quite large with extensive pens for cattle, grain bins and storage sheds for equipment, all in various states of disrepair. Thistle and brome grass overgrew the lanes between the corrals and buildings. They grew between the trees too, but he quickly wore down a trail. He liked being among the trees, unable to see to the farthest horizon as seemed the case anywhere else he stood in these parts. There was a hush there, a quiet, as if he’d journeyed to another place.  

The wind was blowing – it was always blowing – bending the branches and fluttering the leaves, shifting things from light to shadow and back again. She was in the field just beyond the trees, passing through the stalks of wheat with a surprising grace, a red ribbon trailing from her hair. She didn’t seem to notice him, moving alongside the trees toward him. He called out to her, not wanting her to think he was lurking in the shadows with ill intent. The wind gusted, carrying his words away, and she didn’t hear and passed on her way.  

He saw her several more times, usually in the field beside the trees, though once at the far end of the row he was in. It seemed difficult to believe she could fail to notice his presence, but she never acknowledged him. She was young, maybe eighteen or so, and he assumed she was the daughter of one of the neighbours. When one of the brothers across the way asked how he was getting on, he mentioned his walks and how much he enjoyed them and added that there must be someone in his family who felt the same for he always saw her walking the trees. The brother could not hide his dismay at the statement and changed the subject. This piqued his interest and he began to ask around town about the Faulkenbourg Place. It seemed odd to him that the yard for what had obviously been an extensive operation had been allowed to fall into such a state. 

People were reluctant to speak on the matter. They would mutter something about the sisters and then talk of something else. It was very unlike the locals who seemed willing to gossip about anything, even with a stranger like him. It was only when he came across a story in an old newspaper while doing some unrelated research that he realized what they wouldn’t tell him. Hazel and Abigail, the McIntyre sisters had both loved Sven Faulkenbourg. He’d chosen the younger and in a fit of jealousy Hazel had murdered her sister, drowning her in a slough. At the time it was seen as a terrible accident and Sven had gone to Hazel for comfort while he mourned. One thing had led to another and soon they were to be married. 

They lived with Sven’s parents until they could build a place of their own, the very house he was renting. Sven discovered a red ribbon in Hazel’s things. There had been strands of red ribbon found under Abigail’s fingernails when she had been pulled from the slough. It had been noted at the time, but more as a curiosity. When Sven found the ribbon he understood what had happened and he strangled Hazel with it. He was hanged, one of the last to receive capital punishment in those parts and his parents moved away, unable to bear being in the house and on the land where such a tragedy had happened.