CHAPTER 56
The small room under the stage was exactly as I’d imagined it. It was physically empty, but, at the same time, it was full. It was so full of history and secrets and sweet nothings whispered that you could almost feel it. There was something strangely magical about this little room under the stage and the secrets it held—the hopes, the dreams.
“There’s nothing here,” Mike said, once he’d walked around the small space.
“There is,” I replied, looking up at the dusty beams of the ceiling that were covered in so many spider webs that they looked like a Halloween prop.
Mike looked up. “Where?” he asked, his eyes seeking out the place that mine were seeing.
“There’s nothing here physically, but can’t you feel it?” I knew how I must have sounded, a little woo-woo and esoteric, but I really could feel it. It was as if an energy had been caught in this room, years ago.
“Uh, I think you might have inhaled some hallucinogenic spores from the dust, because there’s nothing in this room,” he grumbled.
I smiled at him. “You could be right, actually. Did you know that the pages of really old books can be covered in fungi that have hallucinogenic properties? You can literally get high from sniffing the pages of an old book.”
He chuckled. It was small, but it was like music to my ears. I hadn’t heard him laugh in what felt like forever. And it was everything.
“They also think hallucinogenic fungi are responsible for most reports of ghost sightings in old houses,” I added.
“I thought I saw a ghost once,” he said. “I was about eight. I was staying over in Sugar Manor when it happened, actually.”
“What did you see?” I asked, intrigued.
“Well, I was walking up the stairs and I heard a creak behind me, as if someone was following me, and when I swung around, I thought I saw a flash of something white, as if something flew away quickly.”
“What did you do?” I asked.
“Screamed. Cried. Slept with Mom and Dad,” he said.
“And you think it was a ghost?” I pressed.
He shook his head. “Nah. Probably just an eight-year-old’s imagination. Also, my friend had stolen his parents’ VHS copy ofItand we had all watched it, and it was fucking terrifying.”
“Yup, that will do it. God, I was terrified of clowns, after that film.” I cringed. “I can’t even think of a clown without feeling freaked out.” I looked around the room again. “Crap, and this place is rather reminiscent of a sewer, and now I’m just expecting to see a red balloon come creeping out of the dark corners and—”
I screamed when I felt it and saw it. The furious flurry of something black passed my face, the wind on my cheek and the loud screech in my ear.
“Oh my God, oh my God! What the hell is that?” I flapped my arms around and almost fell to the ground. And then it came again, and again, and . . . “What are they?” I yelled, running in circles as the things whizzed past me. “Are they bats? Are they bats?” I was quite frantic now.
“It’s okay. They’re not going to fly into your hair,” I heard Mike say. But the air around us was full of them, the small room was alive with frantic flapping.
“Oh my God. Oh my God,” I squealed, running around in small circles, covering my face with my hands so nothing would fly into it. I screamed when I felt the swish of a wing by my arm, so close I could feel the rush of air against my skin. And then another wing grazed one of my hands. By this stage, I was quite hysterical. All I could think of were hundreds of bats flapping about in my hair, twisting it into knots, and me having to cut the flapping creatures out in chunks.
Suddenly, I felt two arms around my waist. And then I felt myself being pulled down. The sound in the small room was ear-shattering, filled with the screeching of what felt like a million bats.
I fell to the floor. Not hard, though; something cushioned my blow, something soft and warm and . . . I opened my eyes and looked. My head was on Mike’s chest, his big hands were cradling me towards him.
“Ssshhhh,” he whispered. “Let’s just stay down until they settle.”
His hand across my cheek . . .warm.His hand around my back . . .protective. His smell . . .intoxicating.His soft voice . . .calming.I wrapped my arm around him, across his big chest, and I closed my eyes tightly and waited for the last of the bats to disappear. It took a while until the room was completely silent once more, until they’d flown out of some unseen hole, or flown back to their little devil perches. And, when it was all over, I opened my eyes, tilted my head and looked at him. I could see his eyes were open, scanning the ceiling. And then, slowly, his head began to tilt down. His lips arrived in my field of vision first, followed by his nose and then his eyes and then . . .
Down here with you in this room, Edith, I can pretend I know what it would be like to live together. Sometimes, I imagine this is our house. I can almost see it . . . Me, coming home from work. You’re waiting for me, because you’ve been painting all day, because you’re a great artist and we bought a small house that has a cottage out back that you turned into your studio. The windows are big, so you can watch our children playing in the garden after school while you paint your masterpieces. And, when I come home, you’re all there to open the door for me. My wife, and my beautiful children. That’s what this room is like for me—it’s our imaginary home, the one we’ll probably never get to have. But when I lie here with you on my chest, looking up at me, for a few blissful seconds it’s real. And when I look into your eyes and you into mine, I know I have come home. To you. You are my home, even if we do not have four walls of our own.
You, me, forever.
