Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 64654 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 323(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64654 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 323(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
I don’t believe that places can be haunted. Haunted houses and such … I’ve never given much credence to the notion. Do I believe in ghosts? I do … ever since I was a little girl. That sense of wonder and shiver of fear never left me. I think we all do to some extent; it’s simply a matter of what has happened to each of us that leads us to believe.
But I’ve never thought that ghosts can haunt a physical place. My aunt, who I haven’t seen in nearly a decade now, once told me that spirits don’t haunt locations; they haunt people. She told me there was no such thing as a haunted house.
She said lost spirits follow people who they miss, the ones they have unfinished business with, or a long-lost soul they wish would remember them. So I’ve never been scared of ghost stories. After all, my mother and father didn’t want a damn thing to do with me when air still filled their lungs; surely they didn’t give a shit about me once they were buried six feet under.
Never once have I felt the presence of any being … But as I stand in the foyer, I can’t help questioning my beliefs. Every corner of this house seems to hold a memory that’s desperate to come back to life. Even with my eyes closed, the laughter from events long gone echoes in my mind as if it’s all so close. As if I could reach out and my hand wouldn’t meet cold air and proof this home has been vacant for nearly two years now. If only it was so easy.
No. My aunt wasn’t right about spirits and ghosts.
There are no haunted houses; there are no ghosts at all. There are only haunted people.
“When was the last time you were here?” The deep timbre brings me back to the present and the voices go silent. There’s only a creak of the floor as my memories slip away back to the corners of my sorrowful mind. I wish they would stay. I wish I could go back to them more than anything.
With a shaky breath blown out from between my slightly parted lips, I bring my eyes up to a kind gaze, although behind it is intention.
“I’m sorry,” I respond respectfully, taking in the fact that I am not at all alone, although it certainly felt like I was for a moment. For a very long moment, if I’m honest; too long of a moment. “What was that?”
The gentleman named Cade is the owner of a company my manager holds more confidence in than I do. I focus on his rather large hands as he forms a loose fist to clear his throat again. He’s nervous and for the life of me, I can’t understand why Kamden put his faith in him. Once he’s done clearing his throat, he repeats his question. “When was the last time you were here?”
Letting out an exhale that’s far from easy, but for his comfort, I allow it to be seemingly casual, I respond, “Over a year.” He tucks in his tie, although his deep green eyes never leave mine. There’s kindness there. He’s professional but kind. I add, “Maybe two by now.” My voice turns raspy at the last two words. I’m still recovering and I’ve barely spoken for the last few months as it is.
There’s been no one to talk to. No one I’ve wanted to hold a conversation with either. For a moment the memories of laughter and happier times threaten to come back and instead I hold the poor man hostage in a trivial conversation.
Gesturing to the nearly empty space, I tell him, “Last time I was here we furnished the foyer with the rug and bench, and I intended to finish the space …” my voice trails off and I don’t bother finishing. With my chest feeling hollow, I remind myself that I don’t owe them anything. Not an explanation, not an answer.
“We can work on that, if you’d like,” he offers and it takes me a moment too long to understand that he’s referring to picking out furniture for this far too large house.
Nodding, I take a half step back, my cobalt wool coat providing the only warmth I feel as it’s draped over both my arms that are crossed in front of me. “We could start by turning on the heat?” I joke, keeping my cadence as smooth as I can and my voice gentle, to make up for my tardiness in comprehension. As if on command, there’s a click of the furnace that’s undeniable, and rather unsettling.
The white macael porcelain flooring is elegant and fresh, but is at odds with the vintage, pale and distressed medallion rug I chose years ago. The entirety of this home consists of shades of creams and dark blues. Modern furniture with retro accents and polished copper details only add to the iciness of the mountain setting when we came here to ski for the winter. It’s a careful mix of hard and soft, but I never realized until now just how cold it all is.