Oh, I have no doubt Kellem means to use you to bring me to earth, but, even then, you will be no more than tools. That’s all you will ever be, faceless, nameless tools, who sell yourselves more often and more cheaply than any whore in this town.
I began to run, which I often do when frustration turns to wrath. The icy wind stroked my hair like Laura’s caress had, so long, so long ago. The pavement hurt my feet, but that didn’t slow me. My senses were filled with the mindless, meaningless life I passed; my heart was full of the need for destination, which I found, and that filled me; now I wished for a moon to light my way, for my sight had dimmed, but all of my other senses were heightened. I wanted to laugh, but in my range it was another sound that emerged, but no one heard it anyway, or ever would, for silence inhabits the minds of the deaf, and mine is the power over those who will not hear.
Shadows slowly lengthen as evening turns to cold; The fruits of my labor lie dormant in the hold. An empty hand awaits a glove another day survived, Nightmares fall like poetry, carefully contrived. The leaves blow ’round in circles where before the sun was hot, Add a pinch of desperation to what’s boiling in the pot. The circle widens now, with every blinded turn and twist, To tell of wind and thunder, ice and rain and mist. Close your coat against the wind, tight around your neck; It’s bitter here without the sun, but what did you expect? Words flow by like melody; watch as they unfold, And hear the shadows lengthen as evening turns to cold.
For the first time in more years than I care to remember, I’ve written a poem. I must have spent four or five hours revising it, then typed it out all nice and neat, and I still don’t really like it; it seems like one of those regular, choppy efforts made by first-year students of English literature; but it is interesting that I felt like attempting poetry at all. I think it is this house that is bringing out that side of me. I stopped by to see Jill again today, but she wasn’t in, and neither was Susan. I have nothing to say, but sitting here is better than anything else I can think of to do. Maybe I’ll go back to Jill’s place again and wait around until she comes home. Or I
Jim has just come in and suggested we build a fire. We haven’t had one in several days, and perhaps that is the better idea. I shall sit in front of the fire and ask Jim to tell me of the house; who has lived here and why they left. If he is not in a mood to talk, I shall stare into the flames the way he does, and maybe I’ll begin to learn what he is seeing in the dancing lights.
It has reached the point where I become annoyed when, like yesterday, I can’t get to the typing machine. Odd how much this annoys me. Didn’t Horatio say something on the subject? Or was it Hamlet? My education seems to be gradually slipping away. This saddens me. I was once a very good student, I think. I had a good attitude, which, I believe, means that one looks on learning as a game; or rather, a series of games, such as: What can I invent as a device to remember the year the War of the Roses ended? Or, how can I use my studies of German philosophy to help with a paper on natural science?
Now that I think of it, I cannot remember when the War of the Roses ended, and the little I remember of German philosophy is that a few of us once wrote a poem about an imaginary duel between Feuerbach and Hegel, which the latter eventually won by putting the former to sleep and then drowning him in a twenty-page sentence. It sounds more clever than it probably was, but we were pleased with it at the time, although we never dared to show it to our professors.
Nevertheless, I think I was a good student. I have, at any rate, retained a strong desire to learn, and a tendency to question things around me. I’ve been told that age brings acceptance and complacency, and I’ve even seen examples of this, but it seems not to be true in my case.
Age does, however, bring about an annoying softening of the hard edges of memory; there are now many things of which I no longer remember the details, only how those details affected me. I remember a Latin professor named Smythe, and I have the feeling that he was a devoutly religious man, yet kind and well disposed toward me, but I can no longer remember what he looked like, nor any of the things he actually did. This annoys me.
As I said, I was not able to use the typewriting machine yesterday, because the house was invaded just as I was about to come up to my sanctum. It was not a serious, nor even frightening invasion; there were three boys, aged about ten or eleven, who, from what little I picked up of their conversation, had been dared or had dared each other to spend a night in the haunted house.
I kept urging Jim to make himself visible to them, or let me rattle some woodwork or something, but he wouldn’t. We sat in the basement with the dust and the spiders and occasionally went up to see if they were still there.
“You like children, don’t you?” I said.
“Used to be one,” said Jim.
“Would you have spent a night in a haunted house?”
“No, sir, not for anything.”
“I think I might have, if we’d had one around.”
“I would have thought that haunted houses were everywhere.”
“Not as such. We knew ghosts appeared, here and there, but mostly in places we couldn’t get to. And there were always a few spirits of one sort or another in everyone’s house, or at least we thought there were, but I don’t remember anyone ever leaving a house because there was a spirit there. Then, in England-”
“When did you go to England?”
“I was sent to University there. In England there were stories of ghosts in nearly every building on the campus, I think, but I can’t recall any in houses.”
“These kids got some grit, though,” he said.
“Maybe. We could find out for sure if you’d-”
“No.”
“Have it your way. I’m going to take a walk.”
“Can you get out of the house without them seeing you?”
“Is that a joke?”
“Yes.”
“Enjoy the basement.”
I wandered for a while, something I was getting good at, but did nothing of interest beyond making some very general plans for the next day.
Laura Kellem was waiting near the front door, apparently having determined that I wasn’t home. Her head was uncovered, and, while she had no more hair missing, there were still those odd bald patches. They made her look slightly grotesque, which in an odd way enhanced her attractiveness.
When she saw me, the first thing she said was, “What was it you wanted to see me about that drove you to place an ad in the personals, of all things?”
“It worked. How else could I see you? You’ve carefully arranged things so all communication is one-way.”
“Well, I’m here. Shall we go inside?”
“Sorry, company.”
“Excuse me?”
“Some children have shown up to see if they could spend the night in the haunted house.”
Kellem laughed.
“Not so loudly, if you please,” I said.
She nodded, still grinning. “Is your ghost friend doing anything to their poor, dear heads?”
“No; he’s showing great restraint.”
“What are they doing now?”
“I’ve been out. When I left they were lighting a fire in the fireplace and talking about telling ghost stories. I wonder if they’ll notice that the fireplace has been used lately.”
“I doubt it.”
She looked around at the yard, so overgrown with weeds that one could see them above the snow, surrounded by a faded, rotting fence that had once been painted red, featuring, on one side of the now invisible walk, a single apple tree of the variety someone had once called Mushy Rome Beauty, and, on the other, a catalpa with enough twists to give the place a creepy feeling even if it didn’t have Jim to lend it authenticity. “A nice place, actually,” said Kellem.