The house looks almost the same, but lined with candles—placed with purpose. In the front greeting room, more candles are visible, and I can see them lined up on the floor with the door wide open, flickering as if they have been waiting for my attention. The house seems simpler, more rustic. An era from long ago.
I creep towards the door, afraid of what I will find inside the room. My heart is pounding through my ears, so it is all I hear. Whatever time I’m in, there is another door in the back of the room that links out to the outside, because I can see the storm still raging behind the window. A crying sky setting the scene the way only nature knows how.
I turn to look to my right and realize this is not the estate anymore, but some place that resembles more of a castle. With stone walls and thick wooden doors. A large, engraved plaque taking up most of the wall hangs above where I stand now. It greets me with intimidation, bearing the design of a red lion as I look up at its expansiveness. A medieval coat of arms.
I turn again to get a better view of the room, something swinging in the distance. My eyes focus on the object as a heavy, oppressive feeling crushes down upon me. I freeze in place.
A paralyzing fear stops my muscles from working. The screen doors in the house open and slam shut repeatedly just as a soft scratching sound—like nails moving back and forth against a chalkboard—makes my stomach turn.
A woman with pale skin hangs from the banister in a white nightgown. The rope bound tightly around her neck creaks like a warning. The tips of her bare toes skim the floor, creating a sound I will never forget. My eyes open wide as I’m frozen by the weight of what I am seeing. This isn’t just a stranger I’m looking at. It is me.
Startled by this unexpected sight, I rush out of the room and aminstantly taken back to the present day. The rain is still pounding down outside, and now, so is my heart as I make my own rain in the form of cascading tears down my cheeks. I attempt to settle the rapid beating within, trying to convince myself that what I saw could have never taken place. After all, here I am in the flesh, alive and well.
I sit in place for God knows how long. The storm continues booming outside, and I know I must continue securing the windows. My legs tremble as I lock up the rest of the house. With no one to talk to, I feel just as mad as my uncle must have felt. I have been constantly shoved into the unknown since coming to this house. A portal of sorts that opened the moment I walked through its door.
I’ve heard of such things in stories growing up,Alice in Wonderlandbeing one such book. However, whenever I would speak of it, my mother would always hush me and tell me not to fret over fantasy. But there is a fantasy to my visions that is encroaching on my reality, and it envelops me in a chaotic sense of familiarity I can deny no longer.
Alice had never felt as if she had been in Wonderland before, but with each vision, I feel closer and closer to where I have always belonged. My mind being my most powerful portal, taking me not actually to a place of fantasy, but perhaps to the realest, most concrete reality I have ever known. Even when parts of it feel like hell on earth.
The rest of the night does nothing for my nerves. The forest making itself known in every aspect of this house calms me a bit as I hold the warm painted teacup with branches along its side. Everything about the makings of this house feels like whoever created it wanted to bring the forest and all of its beauty inside. Maybe that is why I feel so at home in its presence.
Snuggling up to Carya, I crawl into bed but still can barelysettle. My best bet is to read—a sure way to clear my head after the night I just experienced. I bring the tattered green book closer, looking at the craftsmanship that surely must be over a hundred years old. Turning to the first page, hoping to dive into an ancient fantasy that doesn’t resemble any of my horrid illusions.
The first chapter bears a small picture of hickory leaves and tells a tale belonging to the Druids. A story of ancient tree Beings within the roots that speaks of a time unknown to man. In this tale, a young tree sprite, created to provide power in the form of her own blood for a most insatiable tree Being, vanished before he could claim any control over her. Protected by her mother, she hides in the mortal world, in human form from the one who craves her most.
I turn the page, hoping to know more about this spellbinding folktale, but the next pages fall apart to powder against my fingertips. Most of the paper inside has been burned, making the words unreadable, and time making the pages unable to retain their dignity. I frown at the sad outcome of this book.
However, the endpapers bear some markings, their thickness holding up despite the rest of the pages of the book. A variety of tree species are drawn as if alluding to some sort of family tree or patriarchal hierarchy. They must belong to another Druid belief about the ancient tree Beings they believe ruled them.
Underneath each tree illustration holds a brief description. Under the oak, inked in gold embossing, readsThe Rooted Realm of Oak and Oath. And there are others, all under their respective tree names.The Rooted Realm of Pine and Pride.Hickory and Heart.Ash and Action.Cypress and Charisma.Cherry and Choice.
I scan the page looking for the one to bring me the comfort I need most as I sit in this bed with my cozy feline. None of this is real, but it might still fill the missing piece in my heart. So, I skim along the tree-filled endpapers with my unpolished pointer finger, hoping what I find will give me some reassurance. And it does. Under a beautifullysketched willow reads, in loopy cursive,The Rooted Realm of Willow and Worth.
My lids grow heavy as I continue to make out some pages that didn’t fall to pieces upon my touch. The book bobbing against my face as I grasp at any type of rest. I know I drift off at times, sleep knocking, but my anxious mind not letting it in. Those moments of slumber riddled with dreams of tree roots, damp moss, a dirt-stained dress and soft earth under my nails.
Or, much as I hoped it wouldn’t, my mind trails off to the vision of me hanging there amongst the candles. A girl lost to her internal anguish. Apart from the shock of what I was seeing, it felt as if I belonged there in that vision. Like I had been there before.
My visions inhabit me, crawling into the synapses within my mind, creating a distant perception of a parallel life I had truly lived in. Those are the ones that seem to have picked up since coming to this estate. A life lived once, where there was just as much warmth and passion as pain and destruction, all stemming from this house and something else. Or perhapssomeoneelse.
10
RECORD PLAYER
RACINE 1978
Rain taps the windows steadily with no sign of stopping anytime soon. The house has no television or radio, so I have to base my knowledge of the incoming weather on a gut feeling. A confusing instinct that hasn’t been hitting its mark lately.
I still have a few boxes to sort through, but my attention wants to move toward the library. The dark green velvet plush chairs inside, inviting me to grab a book and sit. I would love to find another book like the one about the trees, but I’m afraid to look for any more that old in case they have fared as well as the other.
Putting my need for literary escapism aside, I pour myself into another box, hoping for a distraction. I have ultimately decided not to take what is in the boxes to a resale shop. The more I gazed upon pieces like the pearl necklace with the green studded pendant or the ornate silver mirror compact inlaid with moon crested abalone detail, the more my heart would ache at the thought of parting with them. Everything in them holds a sort of weird, unlocked recollection for me.
Perhaps I am grasping at a memory of an uncle I didn’t know and wanted to—at least that is the excuse I tell myself. But it’s more than that. To be honest, I’ve been picking up on odd past moments themore time I spend with some of these items. My visions can do that, blur the line of my own memories and someone else’s altogether. It has happened since I was a kid. Many of the items at the shop had the same entrancing effect.
Down to the last box, I’m happily greeted by the familiar clear rectangular lid on a wooden turntable, the gold needle jumping into my line of sight as an ecstatic proclamation of acknowledgment. It looks a little worse for wear, the round black mat showing signs of heavy use, but I think it may still work. Of all the items I have found in the boxes, this is one I actually feel I can get the most use out of. And with my very unsubtle procrastination yelling obnoxiously in my ear, I figure there is no better time than the present.
I pull it out and blow off the thin layer of dust, watching it swirl into the air in a scattering of sparkles above me. My biggest regret is not bringing any records with me as I look down at the empty player with a frown. If my mind hadn’t been such a directionless mess upon leaving, maybe I would have planned out my stay a little better. My hands rummage through drawers and move books, looking for a hidden spot where my uncle might have stored some. But, no luck. I give up with a sigh, and drop into the green velvet chair beside the bar.
That’s when the idea hits me. Ry. Perhaps the mysterious man holds the key to my current dilemma. Or maybe I just want an excuse to see him again. I walk to the kitchen and dial the number on his business card that still sits on the dark cream marble counter. After a couple of rings, I am met with the gravelly hello I hadn’t realized I was pining for until he spoke.
